Wisdom of Ages
by Paradoqz
Summary: A somewhat disconcerted Pete Wisdom finds out that life and its demands don't stop just because you're dead.
1. The Road Back.

Disclaimer: Most of the characters belong to marvel. Some mention of the   
characters that belong to DC & Wildstorm. No profit is being made off this   
story. Feedback and flames are welcome 

***   
Wisdom of Ages. 

"Soddin' blockhead! Stupid idiot. Fookin' moron! Dumbass! Shit for brains   
amateur fuckhead! Goddamit how dumb was that, Wisdom?!!" 

The string of expletives rung loudly in the gloomy desolation of the   
cemetery. Strangely, the murder of crows, who were digging around the nearby   
clearing, did not appear to be disturbed by either the curses or the man   
delivering them. 

"Idiot! Idiot!! Idiot!!! Damn, wet behind the ears, greenhorn! Never   
occurred to you that he put tracers in HIS OWN BASE?!! And to pay a little   
bit of attention? Nah! I don't need it. I am the soddin' James Bond! I don't   
need to take the elementary fucking precautions. No. Not me. Not The Pete   
The Soddin' Wisdom! So now I have a soddin' hole in my head! Serves me   
right! Dimwit!" 

The crows finally deigned to pay attention to the figure that continued to   
yell and gesticulate agitatedly, only several steps away from them. It's a   
man. Dark hair, cut shortly, framed the thin, slightly gaunt face,   
underscoring the sharp features and blue eyes. Average height and rumpled   
black suit were belied by the lean build and the quietly competent way of a   
fighter, with which the man carried himself. Cawing one of the ravens left   
the rest of the gaggle, to approach Wisdom. Stopping a few paces off, the   
black bird cawed again, the sound a little curious as it tilted its head to   
the side, the black beads of its eyes sparkling mockingly. 

"Ah, shut it, you." Feeling the verbal rebuke to be inadequate, Pete kicked   
the nearest pebble at the bird. Cawing indignantly, the crow hopped away,   
dodging the rock, and giving Pete a look of scorn and haughty pride, turned   
and flew back to his flock. 

"Would you kindly refrain from abusing the animals?" 

"They are not animals, they are bir... Holy shit, do you look wasted, mate!" 

Pete's comments were cut short as he felt as much as heard flapping of wings   
directly above him. Instinctively his hands flew up to protect his face.   
When, seconds later, he decided it was safe he saw his old nemesis sitting   
on the shoulder of the new arrival. 

"Damn bird. I swear it's laughing at me." 

"He is. Dworkin has a great sense of humor." 

Making a face, Pete examined the speaker, not bothering to conceal the   
inspection behind some polite gesture. The thorough look-over served nothing   
but to confirm his earlier impression. About the same height as Pete, the   
guy looked somewhat older - perhaps mid-thirties. Heavy army-issue boots,   
jeans that had seen their share of beatings, flannel shirt and poncho of   
uncertain color were capped off with a wide-brimmed hat. Surprisingly enough   
the total result somehow managed not to look completely ridiculous. Not   
completely. Perhaps because the observer's attention was drawn to the face.   
Not that it was any spectacular face. Dirty blond hair, thin lips, green   
eyes, a nose a little too big for the face and a grimace all too familiar to   
any who ever woke up with a hangover. All in all, not that great of a sight,   
but... there was something about the man. Something odd. 

"Do I know you from somewhere, chap?" 

"No. Get your stuff and come with me." 

"Well... see here, blondie. My mother told me never to go with the strange   
men. And I always listen to my mother. So piss off." 

"Watch your mouth, English." 

The raven cawed in agreement, making as if to whisper something into his   
'perch's ear, when Pete eloquently replied with the universal gesture. 

The man shrugged irritably, almost dislodging the crow, "Yes.. Yes, I know.   
You do not have to convince me! SHE said to do it, so take it up with HER.   
And don't yell! My head is killing me!" 

Pete raised an eyebrow sardonically, "So... Talk to your pets much, are you?   
That's all right. It's when they answer back - that's when there is a   
problem." 

"You'd know." The man replied acidly. 

"Umm... er... Damn. How'd you know about the overgrown lizard anyway?" 

"Never mind that. You coming or not?" 

"Do I have a choice?" 

"Yes. You can come or you can stay here and bother the Dworkin's clan some   
more. I have to warn you however, they are really nasty when irritated." 

"That's all I need... All right. Lead on." 

"Do you even want to know where are we going?" One of the man's eyebrows   
quirked as he turned around, obviously expecting Wisdom to follow him. Which   
he did. 

"What's the difference? I am sick of this place. Anything is better at this   
point." 

"Well... if you are so sick of it, why haven't you left, genius?" 

"Shuddup, you Eastwood wannabe. I tried. I always end up in the spot I   
started." 

"Hmm... You lying?" 

"Hmm... You wanna get punched in the nose?" 

Pete's companion smiled grimly, "Please. Try it. Please." 

"Oh knock off the mysterious, enigmatic stranger bit, would you. What's   
your name anyhow?" 

"Charon. And by the way - mysterious and enigmatic mean the same thing. No,   
make left here." 

Pausing his stride, Pete squinted at the fork in the narrow path, "Are you   
sure? We already made 3 lefts..." 

Not slowing down Charon shrugged, once again upsetting Dworkin, "Fine. Make   
a right. After all you had such a success navigating your way out of here up   
till now." 

Giving the retreating back another two-finger salute, Pete pondered the   
situation for a moment. Finally, swearing softly, he spat and quickened his   
pace in order to catch up with Charon, "You better be right, Charlie." 

"The name is Charon, you Saxon reprobate. C H A R O N. " 

"Yeah, I heard you the first time. Wot, your parents didn't like you or   
something?" 

"It's Greek, you heathen product of public school system!" 

"I know, Just jerking your chain. Jeez, you are easy. So... Charon, huh? As   
in the boat-guy?" 

"Yes. As in the boat-guy." 

"I _am _ dead then, huh... Thought as much. Damn." 

For once Charon failed to come back with a poisonous retort, giving Pete   
time to collect his thoughts. For some time the trio traveled in silence.   
Not even Dworkin made a sound. Led by Charon the group made their way to the   
modestly sized and largely undecorated gate. It sat in the middle of the   
path but, as far as Pete could see, had no fence connected to it. 

Charon stopped in front of the construction and sighed deeply. "I hate this   
part." Muttering something else under his breath he produced a satchel from   
somewhere under his poncho. "All right, lessee..." 

"Hey, I don't know what in hel... What are you doing there, mate, but I'm   
telling you now. I saw that "Crow" flick. If you think you are getting me to   
paint my face with some white crap and prance around in a black trench-coat,   
you better think again." 

"Strip." 

"... wot?" 

"Strip." 

"All right, that's it. You can do whatever the hell you want. Play with you   
bird, talk to the Voices or whatever - I am out of here. Cheers." 

"English, we don't have a great deal of time here. Besides you flatter   
yourself, you are not my type." 

"Now that hurts. I'm weeping on the inside. But I am still not taking my   
clothes off." 

"Does the phrase 'sky-clad,' means anything to you, you loud-mouthed,   
foul-smelling boor?" 

"Yes. You, pervert." 

"Oh, for Lady's sake... You are not the stinking Tom Cruise! Let me explain   
some facts of DEATH to you, Mr. Wisdom. Either you do what I tell you or you   
can stay here and wait for somebody else to come and take you to the   
appropriate department. I assure you, I AM the nicest of the bunch! Now   
then, you can not enter the stupid gate while you still have the earthly   
belongings. Like clothes. So strip!" 

"Now listen here, Charlie... I am dead, right? Right. So I am like a spirit   
of whatever. Boo. These are not clothes, just a figment of our   
imagination... Right? So I don't need to strip. Just pretend I did, all   
right." 

"Fine, smart aleck. Go through." 

Looking at Charon suspiciously for a couple of seconds, Wisdom shrugged,   
stepped up, opened the gates and moved through... Or tried to in any case.   
Pete was not _exactly_ sure what kicked him and where, but it hurt. A lot. 

"Och... This is abuse, this is." 

"Your clothes are 'symbols,' Mr. Wisdom. Now, unless you'd like to try that   
again - please dispose of them." 

"I AM!" The chattering teeth detracted somewhat from the force of the snarl,   
as did the fact that Pete was at the moment hopping on one foot, trying to   
take off his right sock. With only a minimum of harsh landings, Wisdom   
finally undressed and kicked his stuff in a pile near the gate, "Al-ll   
rrrright. Can we get on with it? I am frrrreezing my unmentionables off   
here." 

"You'll live." 

"..." 

" Umm... Sorry." 

"Shut it."   


The silence stretched, as Pete stood shivering and Charon busied himself   
drawing something in front of the gate. Dworkin, after a minute's thought,   
decided to take up a perch on the selfsame gates and was looking over   
Charon's progress. Finally, just as Pete was about to say something rather   
cutting, Charon stood up revealing an intricate pentagram. 

Perhaps the name itself is too simplistic, but it is hard to otherwise   
describe the design. A spiraling web that seemed to draw one's gaze into   
itself as if a magnet... or an abyss. Not wasting any more time, Charon   
placed a small, half-burned candle in the very middle of the pentacle,   
obviously a practiced procedure as not one line had been smudged in process.   
Stepping backwards, he grasped Pete's shoulder firmly with one hand and   
beckoningly extended the other. With a loud cawing screech, Dworkin swept   
towards it and the moment he touched down, the candle ignited. 

Before Pete's startled eyes the small sparks began to separate from the main   
flame and make their way through the pentagram. Soon every line, every   
string of it was completely engulfed. The living flame covered the   
hieroglyphic, presenting a starkly beautiful sight of a something strangely   
akin to a pulsing heart. Suddenly the burning star flashed brightly, too   
brightly for Pete's eyes. The design burned itself into his mind, like brand   
on calf's skin. It burned itself deep into him, so very deep... and then he   
was falling, and falling, and falling. 

"You know, I am being an awfully good sport about all this..." 

"Yep. You are. Refreshing really." 

"Bullocks. Weird is what it is. Why am I being so calm? I am dead for   
Crissakes. I. Am. Dead. Why doesn't the concept bother me just a biiit   
more?" 

"Eh... Am not sure. You mortals are a weird lot. Some freak so badly, you   
would not believe. Others are actually happy. And then there are your kind   
of people. Just take it in stride... Spooky. I think it's something to do   
with the cemetery, actually. Does something to your minds... prepares you.   
What is unusual though, is that you couldn't get out of it by yourself.   
Usually folks find their own gate and I just meet them there... Weird." 

"Weird." 

"Cawww."   
  
  
  
  


"So is this it?" 

"Uh-huh:" 

"So... what _is_ it?" 

"A start." 

"Informative, that is." 

"Annoying, you are." 

"Aaand now that you've shown your truly spectacular lack of humor... What am   
I supposed to do here?" 

"Walk." 

"Walk?" 

"Walk." 

"Where?" 

"Just walk. The road will find you." 

"The road will... What? What the.. Charo... where the hell did he go?" 

"Cawww." 

"Oh, shut up." 

The spot was strange, no question about it. But on other hand, Pete _was_   
dead. Very little wasn't strange about the situation. He looked around.   
Charon was gone. A cheap trick in his private, personal opinion, but that's   
these mythical types for you. Can't trust. Just can't trust them. On other   
hand his clothes were back. And -hey a bonus! - his pack was full again,   
when he fished it out of the packet. 

It just figured that he was out of matches. 

Of course. 

Typical. 

So - the spot. Well... it was spot-like. And such.   
Looked as if someone took a flame-thrower to the field of grass. All around   
him, as far as Pete could see, there was grass. Tall grass, easily reaching   
to his knees. Except in the place he was standing. An uneven square-shaped   
spot of black. 

"The road will find you... Pile of blarney. Cryptic wanker... Everybody is a   
freaking Pythia. Well, I am here. Where is the bloody road?" 

Dworkin returned from, apparently, reconnoitering the surroundings and   
serenely assumed his seat on Pete's right shoulder. Blithely ignoring the   
latter's glower. "What do I look like to you? A tree? Get off! Get off, you   
pillow stuffing! Get... You are not getting off, are ya?" 

The crow pecked under his wing and, squinting at Wisdom, answered flatly,   
"Caw." 

"Oi. Why me. Do _you_ at least know where am I supposed to go?" 

The crow shrugged, happily oblivious of the facts that crows can't shrug.   
Pete glowered at the bird a little more, until he concluded that while fun   
the glowering wasn't very productive. Besides his neck started to hurt from   
twisting it to look at the damn bird on his shoulder. 

Spitting and muttering disgustedly Pete looked around, his hands absently   
brushing the grass and plucking a solitary blade. "I am waaaaiting... The   
road will find you... Some people... I swear.. You know what? Screw this."   
Gripping the stem in his lips, Pete flipped off the empty field and boldly   
stepped forward. 

So did the spot. 

Well... sort of. 

The black square hadn't moved _exactly_. It just elongated, lengthened. It   
had become a rectangle.. 

Another step. 

The black rectangle forged ahead of Pete. 

Another step. 

The end of the black path disappeared from eyesight, winding it's way among   
the reeds, toward the horizon. 

"Well, fuck me..." 

*** 

The black road was... well, it was perfect. Unpaved but still firm, as if   
beat by thousands of travelers, it seemed to push back up at his feet,   
putting a spring into his step. To Pete, it seemed that he could walk it   
forever. It was also empty, as far as the eye could see. He left the field   
of grass sometime ago and now was walking through what resembled badlands of   
Utah. Only uglier. 

It became quite boring, quite quickly. He tried whistling, which worked for   
a while - up until Dworkin indicated his approval with trying to make it a   
duet. He tried doing the multiplication table in his head. He tried to   
catalogue the nicknames he made up for Rasputin. He was still very, very   
bored. 

The time seemed to lose any relevance, flowing heavily and meaninglessly   
around him like dense honey. The sun, if there was one, was nowhere to be   
seen in a crystally blue sky. It was when he caught himself thinking of   
Kitty, leather and ice-scream that he decided to experiment with black road   
instead. 

And so he did. 

He turned right. So did the road. 

He turned left. So did the road. 

He trotted around in a circle. So did the road. 

He jumped up and down. The road stayed in place and Dworkin looked at him   
oddly. 

"Having a bit of fun with the metaphysical manifestations, are we?" 

Pete didn't leap up in the air as the tradition demanded. He _was_ a Black   
Air operative after all. He knew several dozens of way to kill a man using   
his belt. He had survived in places that would make an average SAS man   
shiver uncontrollably and cry like a little girl. He was not surprised   
easily. He had his dignity to consider. 

Besides he was already in mid jump, waving his arms and whoo-hooing   
excitedly, testing whether the road would jump with him. 

Well, that's life for you. More often then not you'll end up looking a fool.   
The trick is in recovery, you see. 

"Jesuuus Christ! Who the hell are you and can you tell me how the hell do I   
get the hell out of this hellhole?!" 

"Easy on the cussing there, sonny." 

"Oh fer Chrissakes..." 

"Hey! What are you simple, kid? I told you, knock it off. This is not hell,   
but if you yell a little more... things can happen. Same for the Name.   
Just... take it easy, all right?" 

A square kindly-smart face, framed by the steel gray hair, criss-crossed by   
lines of age and completed by the dark-blue eyes, peering at him through   
old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses, was not what you would exactly call   
authoritative, but… Pete spat and grimly reflected that there were a whole   
lot of 'but's lately in his life… death… Crap! 

The old man observed Pete, squinting understandingly as he witnessed the   
interplay of emotions on latter's face. "Weird, innit?" 

"Wot, dying? No shit, Sherlock." 

"You can call me Ben. I'll take you part of the way… well not really take   
you, but sort of… you know…" 

Pete frowned and made another half-hearted attempt to knock Dworkin off his   
shoulder. Dworkin proved reasonable and vacated the shoulder. 

In favor of Pete's head. 

This was really shaping up to be a bad afterlife. 

"No! I do NOT know. Me life-after-death experience is somewhat limited and   
rusty, ya ken it? And your buddy helped exactly squat!" 

Ben frowned, "My buddy?" 

"Yeah! That ponce Charon. " Pete kicked the helpless road, while making a   
truly atrocious attempt to imitate Charon's voice "The road will find you…   
Be one with everything… May the force be with you… The sodding blockhead!   
Couldn't give me frikking straight directions?! And now you are going to   
pull that 'appear out from nowhere and be all-mysterious like' crap. I am   
not in the fucking mood, all right! Just tell me which way to go… to   
wherever I am supposed to go. Heaven, Hell, whatever. I just want to   
flonqing get there…" Pete trailed off, a horrified expression slowly   
creeping across his face. 

"What?" Ben, stepped toward Pete, his brows creasing in concern, "What is   
it?" 

Backpedaling violently Wisdom pointed a slightly trembling finger at him,   
"Youuuuu.... youuu... don't come near me, you .... you bastards. Look what   
you made me do! I used HIS bloody stupid, idiotic, moronic, dumb-ass, future   
curse!" Face screwed up in a grimace of honest pain, Wisdom half-moaned,   
"It's not even a frigging word..." 

The old man grinned, "Son, you better cut don on all that caffeine. You   
poofs - always too excitable by half." 

Narrowing his eyes, Pete closed the distance he so recently put between them   
and tried to tower over the man before him. The valiant effort, he grimly   
concluded, was for naught, considering that they were of about the same   
height and he was not sure to whose advantage it was that he had Dworkin   
nesting in his head. "Are you gonna tell me which way to go or not, old   
man?" 

"Well I can tell you, it's not up. So you can stop trying to fly, for one   
thing. " 

"I was not trying to fly!" 

"Than, what in the name of all that's holy, were you doing waving your arms   
and yelling like a stepped-onto cat?" 

".... calisthenics. " 

"...." 

"Wot?! Good for you. Ask anybody." 

Ben squinted again, his eyes almost disappearing behind the bushy eyebrow,   
"I think I am beginning to see why Charry left you so early on... hey! Where   
you going, kid?" 

"That way! And you stay away from me.. you and your little bird too! Get   
off. You hear? Get off.. argh... ow." Pete sat up gingerly and sadly looked   
at the tear in his pants. Upon thinking, he sighed and morosely commented on   
the fact that if a certain damn bird would ever come near him again, it'd   
very shortly become a very dead bird. Upon thinking a little more, he added,   
"And ow." 

Ben grunted as he pulled Pete back to his feet, "Oi, I'm old. You done   
fooling around now? We are on a timetable here." 

Pete stopped beating the dust out of his clothes to shoot a venomous look,   
"Well, if we are in such a hurry, why don't you people get yourself some   
road signs or something... no! Get away!" 

Cawing in soft reproach, Dworkin changed his course and gently landed on   
Ben's shoulder, who accepted the development philosophically, "Come on,   
Peter... It's Peter, right?" 

"Pete." 

"Right. Pete... you are on our turf now. Gotta trust the natives. And.. We   
are helping you as much as we can, you know. Pushing it, in fact. Charon, he   
is a busy guy, he couldn't go in details and stuff. He told you basically   
everything you need to know. Road WILL find you. This is, more or less, your   
call out here. It will take you wherever you want to go. You just have to   
pick. Carefully." 

"Christ. If you only you'd realize how you sound..." 

"A bad neo-fantasy novel?" 

"You said it, mate, I didn't." 

"It gets worse." 

Still cleaning his jacket, Pete finally moved under the wordless urging of   
his companion. The latter waited patiently as Wisdom suddenly paused in   
mid-stride, tilting his head and squinting, seemingly straining his   
attention for something. Finally, muttering under his breath he made a sharp   
left turn and so the trio was on its way. Soon the Ben's voice and Pete's   
frequent break-in remarks, that carried well and far along the road, were   
the only sign of their progression as they disappeared toward the horizon,   
occasionally supported by Dworkin's commentary. 

"You see, kid, this is the Otherside... " 

"Other side of what?" 

"Everything. This is a weird place, Peter.. sorry, Pete? Yeah, Pete. I mean   
when I first got here it threw for a hel... heck of a loop. I mean, imagine   
this.. a world ... well it's not even a world I suppose, strictly speaking.   
Malchus once tried to explain this stuff to me, but I guess it's just went   
over my head. Basically think of this as plane of existence. " 

"Gee, thanks for making it all clear." 

"Hmmm... I know. Well, sue me. I am still confused myself about this. Ok...   
You know all the religions talk about Hell, Heaven and such?" 

"Yeah...." 

"Most of that is true." 

"Most?" 

"Well, in my personal opinion Shaitan doesn't smell like brimstone at all.   
Jasmine, would be my guess... Anyway, let's move on." 

"Yes. Please. Let's. And if you don't feel like going into details, as to   
why you sniffed Satan, I'll understand completely." 

"Oh, shove off. See, most of these Hells and Paradises occupy their own   
dimensions. Whatever you do, don't visit Dormammu. Trust me, I learned it   
the hard way." 

"Dor-who? Never mind, I don't care. How long IS this story and where the   
he... umm...bollocks is the end of the bloody road?" 

"Dormammu. Story is almost over. Don't know. And pay attention, this is   
important." 

"Caw!" 

Pete closed his eyes and very slowly counted to ten Opening them he, with   
positively superhuman effort, produced something meant to be a smile. It   
looked more like a rictus of death brought by apoplexy, but it's the thought   
that matters after all. Turning to Ben, who blanched slightly at the visage,   
Wisdom enunciated very deliberately, "All right. Go on, then. I'm   
listening." 

"Umm... good. Where was I..." 

"Dormommy." 

"Dormammu. Ah, yes. Ok, see the universe that you are familiar with is huge.   
Immense! The size of it, by far, transcends any word I could think up to   
describe it." 

"Universe - big. Got it. Move ON!" 

"It's huge. But it is not boundless. Like most things, universe is finite,   
in both its reaches and its life span. However... that's just a part of the   
story for you see.. your universe is not the only one." 

"Yeah, and Pope shits in the wood. 'Ey, remember me? I hung around those   
weirdoes in spandex. You know - X-Men! Besides Ridchards' "Theoretics of   
Multiverse" was a required reading at Whitehall. The poofs at Langley tried   
to keep it from general circulation, even. So spare me the bull." 

"Would you be quiet?! Lord! Nothing worse than idiots like you trampling   
through here! Read a book did you? Well, good for you!" 

Ben worked his jaw, his eyes still sparkling with anger, an expression ill   
suited for him. Dworkin looked at Pete reproachfully from Ben's back. Pete   
sniffed. The crow turned away, his whole posture indicating that his opinion   
of the Englishman has just reached an all time low. Wisdom sniffed again,   
muttered something under his breath and sighed, "Hey, sorry, mate. Just a   
little jumpy... you know?' 

Ben rubbed his temple and also sighed deeply, "No worries. Long afterlife.   
OK. Here is the condensed version. There is a whole mess of the variations   
on true, the Source universe. Some call this the Web, some call it the   
Multiverse, some call it the Bleed. Over time there were of course a number   
of contacts made, but only few traverse the Barriers at will. With me so   
far?" 

Nodding, Pete narrowed his eyes, to protect them from the rising, chilly   
wind. 

"All right. Contrary to logic and the belief of the majority, the Source   
universe is not in the center of the Web. We are." 

"We being...?" 

"The Nexus. The Otherside. The Path Between the Realms." 

The wind was becoming steadily stronger, blowing dust and dry leaves into   
the faces of the two men. Dworkin had left suddenly, some time ago, taking   
off into the air with a shrill cry and disappearing out of sight moments   
later. The road itself changed slightly, Still black it felt different now.   
More tough as if... it was paved? Pete glanced down and tsked uncertainly.   
The road _was_ paved now. A dozen quips featuring Ben as Toto sprung to his   
mind and were backhanded away as he concentrated on the latter's voice. 

"Some things transcend the Multiverse. SHE says that at one time Elder Gods   
ruled over all of it. Then their Age was eclipsed. They're still powerful   
and rule over some dimensions but they have been barred from many by Heroes   
and Younger Gods. Some of them, and a lot of later Gods, have weakened, lack   
of faith and such... they're Shades now. Most retain immortality but not   
much else. Almost all get to here when that happens... makes for an   
interesting place, as you can imagine. You have NO idea how easily they get   
bored..." 

"So... What happens when they do?" 

"Stuff. Weird stuff. Well.. I exaggerate a little. They find hobbies.   
Ninkasi and Pan are amusing themselves right now by torturing Strange. They   
hinted to a Passage that might lead him here and now are making him jump   
through the hoops... Ah well, better him than me, I suppose." 

"Who?" 

"Stephen Strange, The Sorcerer Sup..." 

I know who _that_ is. Who are the two jokers?" 

"Ah. Ninkasi is a Sumerian dame. She invented booze. And Pan... well... You   
have to meet Pan." 

"Pass." 

"Smart."   
.   
"Kitt... a friend of mine liked Bullfinch." 

"Ah. Well as I was saying, some of the deities are worshipped all through   
the Bleed. Sometimes under different names, and even different images but   
still... And where they're worshipped, or even simply believed in, they have   
power. Not all of them are connected to us that closely, though. Some   
existed before Man and will outlast him, if they wish to. Those are the   
scary ones. Total weirdoes. See this is where you come in..." 

"Parker! Yo! Parker!!" 

The wind carried the voice to them but its radically changing direction   
played merry havoc with the pitch. 

"PaArkEEeR! 

"HERE! Over here, you dumbell!" 

Pete cupped a hand above his eyes and tried to locate the source of the   
summons. The gesture was almost laughable when pitied against the nearly   
impenetrable fury of the dust storm now enveloping the road. 

"Finally! Sheesh, whatta frik did you do, man?!" 

The man, who emerged suddenly directly in front of Pete, did not waste any   
time in getting on his good side. The Englishman especially appreciated   
being poked in the chest with a finger. So much so that he let the guy know   
his feelings on the matter immediately. 

The generally effective pinkie hold -- transferred into choke hold   
--transferred into a knee-meets groin move -- transferred into a sobbing   
opponent on the ground... failed abysmally in this instance. By the time   
Ben forced the two apart the stranger was nursing his nose and Pete's upper   
lip was more than a little tender. 

Screaming over what now was pushing definition of a hurricane, the old man   
shouted to the new arrival to do something about a shelter. Glaring pure   
murder at Wisdom, the stranger complied grudgingly, gesturing with his right   
arm. After just a few seconds the sounds of the storm died down and it was   
as if an invisible sphere was now protecting the trio. Wiping his face, Ben   
sighed with exhaustion worthy of Atlas, "What IS it, James? What is so   
important that you had to come beat up on Pete here?" 

"Hey, I got him too!" 

Last time Pete has seen similar look on anybody's face was before he was   
dropped into a vat full of acid. After considering all the facets of the   
current situation, he smiled winningly at glowering Ben and suddenly decided   
to become fascinated with his shoes. They were all black, had interesting   
laces and in way were capable of doing things to him that involved long   
visits to therapist to forget. 

He didn't miss the smug glance from this James fellow, but decided not to   
press the point, listening to the latter's message instead. Which was as   
long as it was informative, "She's back. The bitch is back." 

As much as he did NOT expect that remark, Pete anticipated Ben's reply even   
less, "Which one?" 

"Tall, pale and unpleasant ring any bells?" 

"Too many. Narrow it down, J." 

"Her Majesty 'I Dream Of Slaughter.' " 

"Oh, cripes... Barnes..." 

The young... well he was about 22 anyway, man instantly went into defensive   
mode, his short black hair violently dispensing the dust and sand collected   
shortly before as he jerked his head upright, "What?! What?!! How is that my   
fault?" 

"I don't know." Ben replied glumly, "But it invariably is." 

"Is not! Last time she even got by Captain! Antway, they are asking for   
you... They are OUT IN WESTERN REACHES!" James Barnes yelled last sentence,   
as Ben suddenly disappeared in a portal that opened directly below him. 

Pete made as if to follow him, but was stopped by a firm and unforgiving   
grasp on his shoulder. "Sorry pal, looks like we are stuck with each other   
for the rest of the way... Mind doing something about the hell-soup you made   
out there?" 

Seeing that portal was already gone, Pete turned around, neatly throwing   
Barnes' arm off his shoulder. Reaching inside his jacket he fished out his   
cigarette pack and flicked out a solitary fag with one practiced, fluid   
motion. Clamping his teeth on the stem he chewed on the paper, thoughtfully   
assessing the individual before him. As the taste of nicotine attacked his   
taste buds, Pete's eyebrow crinkled slightly, giving his face an even more   
sardonic look than usual. "So you are my new best friend, eh?" 

*** 

The short pause followed Pete's sardonic query, during which he found   
himself on a receiving end of a thorough sizing up. When the answer came, it   
was about what Wisdom expected. 

"No. But I'll keep you from getting... deader." 

"Oh, you will, will you now?" 

"Couldn't do any worse than you." 

Wincing on the inside, Wisdom couldn't help but to concede the first point   
to the kid. Not that he'd admit it of course. 

The blue-brown eyes looking at him were far too serious, he decided. The boy   
was slightly taller than him and stood ramrod straight. Something in his   
posture just screamed "army" to the trained eye. As if trying to offset it,   
James's clothes were almost too casual. Ripped jeans brought to mind the   
heyday of 80's Rock Bands Fashions, the effect was not helped by black shirt   
and an earring in the right ear. Still... Pete's bleeding lip reminded him   
that the kid wasn't as harmless as he looked. And for all his seemingly   
stiff pose, the former Black Air agent didn't fail to notice the   
lightly-on-the-soles stance or the those...serious, serious eyes. This kid   
had been to school... 

"All right then, Jimmy boy. Let's get a move on. And what do you mean '_my_   
hell soup?'" 

James, made a slight head motion, indicating the raging typhoon outside of   
the protected space in which the pair stood, "That. That's what I mean. Get   
rid of the special effects now? Maybe? If it's not too much frigging   
trouble." 

"Chill, mate. I may look like Moses but actually I am his long lost twin. We   
swapped, you see. I got the nifty accent and he got the sea-parting thing. I   
came out ahead if you ask me." 

"...what?" 

Pete sighed heavily and spat the bedraggled cigarette out, "Nobody   
appreciates my sense of humor.... Ok, in simple terms, small words and   
colorful illustrations - How the fuck do you expect me to stop that?" 

"Just how you started it." Quickly, James raised his hands effectively   
shutting Pete up before the latter had even spoken, "Yes you did. You did   
start it." 

Pete smirked at the youth, instinctively finding the approach most likely to   
drive the guy up the wall. It's a talent he had. "Oh, you got me. Caught me   
at it. See, that's what I do for a bit of fun. Go around starting   
hurricanes. Occasionally I drop houses on the Wicked Witches. But that's   
only on Thursdays. " 

James sighed heavily and visibly restrained himself from saying something.   
Sighing several more times, in a measured manner peculiar to divers or   
people desperately striving to keep a grasp on their temper, he looked at   
Pete, the earring gleaming dully with the light coming from God knows where.   
"You still don't get it, do you? This your road. You are freaking God on   
this road. It takes you wherever you want to go.." 

"Bullshit. Yeah, sure let's say it takes me where I want to be... But what   
if I don't know! Where am I supposed to want to go? Huh? And don't give me   
that crap about 'every man makes his own Hell'! I made my choices. I ain't   
looking for no excuses. But I'd make them again. And no, I don't think I am   
a fucking angel or something... but..." Pete trailed off, something in the   
back of his mind wondering where did the burst of anger come from. 

Deflating slightly he reached for pack once again to get another   
cancer-stick. Upon thought, he offered one to James. "Kill your liver a   
little?" 

The kid has been watching him all through his diatribe, silently but closely   
with those serious eyes of his, unreadable as the MacTaggert's handwriting.   
So it came as a slight surprise, when Barnes suddenly grinned and deftly   
plucked the cigarette from Pete's fingers. "Eh, why not. One of the few   
upsides of being dead... Here, I got a light." 

Grabbing the lighter almost greedily, Pete shuddered in almost orgasmic   
pleasure, as seconds later nicotine invaded his lungs, "Mmmm... Hey, look at   
that, the storm's died down." 

James snorted and snapped his fingers leisurely, letting the invisible walls   
dissolve. 

Narrowing his eyes, Wisdom followed him as Barnes stepped out on the road.   
Gesturing with his right hand, the smoldering cigarette still firmly lodged   
in between the fingers, Pete intoned acidly, "Don't tell me. The storm was a   
manifestation of my psychological turmoil and subconscious anger brought on   
by a difficult childhood and the fact that I desperately wanted a fag?" 

"Got it in one." 

James never did notice the look on Pete's face as he continued on,   
confidently expecting the Englishman to follow him. Briefly Wisdom   
considered telling the kid that he was joking... but decided against it. 

The time passed the travelling pair by, as they made their progress down the   
black road. Almost as if to follow the silly clichT, their manner with each   
other became easier with every step, the little tassle seemingly breaking   
some barrier... Occasionally thin wisps of smoke make their appearance,   
signifying the rapid destruction of the "Camels". 

"...and that's where you came in and started putting fingers in me ribs."   
Pete finished the sentence and flicked the cigarette stub away. 

James nodded unchalantly, "So basically you know most of the story but not   
the really important parts. Figures." 

"Bloody typical. So, care to enlighten me?" 

Barnes took a long, satisfying drag on his own cigarette and shrugged,   
"Well, I suppose I should... if you ask me nicely." 

"I'll bloody ask you nicely... Can't believe you're actually poncy enough to   
call yourself Guardians... I mean... Christ." 

James blushed, "Well, so what? It's descriptive! And it's a tradition, you   
damn limey! You should know about that stuff." 

"'Ey, whatever floats your boat, mate. Just get on with the 'splaining...   
Lucy." 

"That's funny. You are a funny guy, Wisdom." 

Pete smiled beatifically, "Yeah. I know." 

Sniffing and muttering something that Wisdom chose not to hear, James gave   
his companion one last glare before starting to talk, "See, it's like Ben   
told you. There is a bunch of... well, Big Boys. I never messed around with   
any of them, personally. Captain and Ben though had an occasion. Cap, almost   
bought it too, that time..." 

"Cap? As in Britain? Did Braddock got a slight case of dead while I wasn't   
looking?" 

"Nah. Actually you are probably know of him. He's an alien? Did his heroics   
about your time too... Got some virus or other... Ring any bells?" 

"Some... Anyhow, what do you mean 'almost bought it'? He was already...   
well.. not terribly alive." 

"It's complicated. Anyway. Where was I?" 

"Insulting me intelligence, I believe." 

"Touchy. Hmm... AH! So some time ago a Bad Thing happened. A Synchrony. One   
of the Endless ones... well ended. That's all right though. Happened before,   
will happen again. Grand Wheel, rebirth, all that good stuff... But. There   
was a but. At about the same time another one got it between the eyes. The   
Murder. Or the Spirit of Murder, rather and so.. a Synchrony. Get it?" 

"No. In English?" 

James sighed and stopped, turning to Pete and squinting in thought. Suddenly   
his face lighted up and he waved his hand agitatedly, "Aha! Ok, look.   
Imagine a cup filled with ink." 

"All right..." Pete replied cautiously. 

"Ok. Now -WHAM. Somebody breaks the cup. What happens?" 

"A dirty carpet?" 

"Exactly! Now the cup is that Murder chick. Now imagine that in the exact   
moment the cup broke there was like a strong gust of wind. Get it? The wind   
is like an... well.. echo I guess from when the Endless One bought it.   
Oneiros, his name was. So this ink is blown over the whole freaking Bleed.   
Do you know what I am saying? This Oneiros - he's like the god of Dreams...   
A Sandman, basically. It's like he carried the shards of the Spirit of   
Murder all across the Multiverse. It's not really noticeable right away.   
Just a few more muggings here and there. A few killings. A couple of little   
wars or a broken dream here and there. An odd assassination. Nothing out of   
the ordinary. But it's going to get worse as the shards get stronger, you   
see. The original one, Rose Tattoo... she's gone. No one knows what the hell   
happened to her. She should have resurfaced some time ago. Instead we got   
all these... these... fucking ink-blots all over the place, making trouble.   
That's where you come in." 

"You don't say." 

"Just shut up, for once in your life and listen, all right? Ours, well yours   
and mine, universe is one of the Hubs. Very important. If we get the shard   
'amputated' there it's gonna mean a lot. Everybody was looking for   
candidates... And then you die! Like, excellent timing, man!" 

"We aim to please." 

James deliberately ignored the dry tone of the comment and stoically plowed   
on. 

"I am not exactly sure, why they chose you, to tell the truth... There were   
a couple of other guys I'd think... eh, never mind. It's easier with you   
though - you got a thread. So - you're up. Going back. Take out the shard.   
Save the world. Get a ticket to Heaven. Easy." 

"Yeaaah. What thread?" 

"Huh?" 

"What did you mean I got a thread?" 

James sighed... "All right. Damn, you ask a lot of questions..." 

"Indulge me." 

"Oh, shut up. All right.. it's easier to show you... Watch this..." Pete   
observed as James shut his eyes and concentrated, his hands slightly akimbo.   
Suddenly the air before them began to shimmer. Narrowing his eyes, Pete   
stepped closer... Near and yet far, a mirage-like picture was forming. 

A black road, winding its way between the dunes of a desert. The trio of   
vultures is circling it, their eyes intent on a barely visible prey. The   
picture zooms and the black dot grows before his eyes. It is a man. No...   
it's a boy. He's lanky and dressed in to the tatters of a spandex. He's   
exhausted and hunched up, as he makes his way down the black road, toward   
horizon, with the white sun unmercifully beating down on him. 

The sudden feeling of familiarity rings discordantly inside Pete and he   
watches more closely. Slim figure, disheveled mop of brown hair, brown   
eyes... he doesn't know him! But why does it feel as if he should? 

Suddenly the clouds gather ahead of weary youth. They coalesce into the   
shape that Pete knows all too well... And suddenly the picture becomes all   
to clear. 

The boy raises his head as the visage in the heaven begins to laugh. He   
watches calmly as the sand around him begins to dance under the rising wind.   
Soon his already slow progress is slowed to a snail's pace. Still he   
persists... The shoulder dropped, his hand futilely shields his face from   
the sanddrops, hot as coals, biting into weary flesh. Soon his   
self-composure vanishes, his lips pull back in a snarl and the eyes glow   
darkly as stars on the drawn face. Still he goes on. 

The wind gets stronger, every step is now a struggle and eventually,   
inevitably the boy looses his footing and falls... the storm covering the   
lying form from Pete's eyes. Still, the boy gets up. Once again he casts his   
eyes to the face above him, his hands rise and he screams... no, he roars,   
"Not enough, Nur! Never enough!" 

The figure of the boy blurs and changes into the muscular body of a man. The   
colors of the remnants of the uniform, draped around him, change to the blue   
and gold...only his wounds, the determinedly set eyes and the defiant snarl   
remain the same as he plunges back into the thick of sand storm,   
disappearing from sight. 

The form ahead, is not laughing anymore, instead Apocalypse's face reflects   
fury. Soon, it too fades...the sandstorm quiets down, revealing the empty   
desert. The road, the scavengers, the boy... all gone. A weeping face of a   
red haired girl appears briefly in the place of the Forever Walker and   
then... darkness. 

Turning angrily toward James, Pete stalked toward the young man, his face   
grim, "Why is he alone? Why is Summers alone, eh?! Where the fuck are your   
Guardians when people actually need them, huh?!" 

James, his eyes still closed, shrugged - a curiously helplessly angry   
gesture, "We don't have a choice." He replied tiredly. "Some people must   
walk the road alone. We're not done. Watch" 

The air shimmered once again. Soon Pete was watching as faces, sometimes   
familiar, sometimes not made their appearance. Each walking the black road.   
Sometimes alone. Sometimes not. Sometimes opposed, sometimes helped. Faces,   
faces, faces...when he recognized one as the kid from Frost's school, Pete   
had just about enough... Thankfully, so did James apparently. As the   
Guardian collapsed on the road, breathing heavily, Pete bit the inside of   
his cheek. "Very... educational." 

"Was.. it..? Good." If Barnes was at all repentant he hid it well. 

"What was the fucking point of that little picture show? I asked you what my   
thread was." 

James sighed and sat down, cross-legged on the black pavement, "Think,   
Wisdom. Think. I know it's not something you are used to doing, but give it   
a try. Did you wonder yet, as to why exactly you chose all those turns on   
the road? I mean there is not a whole mess of a lot to choose from here.   
Yet, you did all right..." 

"How the hell was I supposed to know how I did?! None of you jokers ever   
told me." 

"Shut up. Stop talking. Close your eyes. Listen." 

Pete glared at the sitting figure for a moment. Eventually though the   
Englishman acquiesced and closed his eyes, his face still reflecting his   
absolute belief in the foolishness of it all. Just a few seconds later   
however, his eyes flew wide open and he stifled a gasp of surprise. "God   
damn... I should've known the witch wouldn't even let me die in peace..." 

James smirked as he got up to his feet. "There you go, pal. That's your   
thread. She was calling you all this time... That's probably a major part   
why SHE chose you in the first place. Time is of the essence here, you know.   
So we should get a move on here... Know what I mea.." 

James was interrupted in the mid-word as the air shimmered once again,   
directly in front of the pair. 

"What the hell are you doing now?" Pete queried testily "I thought we were   
in a hurry?" 

"I ain't doing this.. Oh shit! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!" 

The shimmer continued to intensify until the air seemed to be trembling,   
Pete was just thinking how it looked ready to explode when it... did. 

The shock-wave threw him hard against the ground a good 5 feet from he was   
standing. By the time he regained his presence of mind, the situation   
deteriorated significantly. 

James was bleeding. A tall, pale woman was beating him into a pulp, and   
Pete's jacket now too sported a tear to match the pants. On the plus side,   
he now had a target to vent his feelings. 

Goodie. 

The lady was pretty, Pete reflected absently as he flew back to the spot   
from where he got up just a minute ago. The lady also packed a punch like a   
frigging mule. From what James was screaming it was someone named the Dream   
Queen. 

She reminded him a bit of Domino - same snow-white tint of skin, same evil   
smile as she sent you flying... Thankfully so far this one didn't seem to   
have any artillery. 

On the negative side, she didn't seem to need any. 

Pete wasn't even completely on the ground when his progress was sped up by   
James who collided into him with a loud 'whump' 

"Och.. get off me, Jimmy.." 

"Shit-shit-shit. Ben should have held her.. Look out! 

"Jeesus, that's one pissed off bird you got there. What next, she is gonna   
start shitting lightening at us?" 

"Worse... Whoa! From the other side-try and get her.. Whoa!" 

The hand on his throat bore all the resemblance to anaconda that Pete cared   
to test. Incongruously his second thought was how silly it was to feel his   
legs dangling in the air. The hold tightened, cutting his air supply to a   
precariously slight amount. Gasping, Pete suddenly found himself face to   
face with the Dream Queen. 

She wasn't pretty. She was beautiful. In that cold and malevolent way that   
seems to attract so many men. Her crimson lips, widened in a smile,   
seemingly all the brighter when contrasted with the pallor of her face. Also   
her cleavage was noticeable. She might be evil but she had a truly   
impressive set of... That particular train of thought came to an abrupt end   
when he felt her nail on his neck. A very sharp nail. 

"All right. That's it. I ain't standing for any more of your shenanigans. I   
was an almost married man. I understand how irresistible I am to a gal of   
your advancing years but...gahhh" 

The smile slimmed down somewhat as the Queen tightened the grip,   
"So...Bucky.... that's the best you all could come up with?" 

Somewhere outside of his field of vision, Pete heard James wheeze out   
something affirmative-sounding.   
The lady pursed her lips and shook him about a little like a stuffed toy. By   
the time the stars cleared, the Queen was pouting, "I am not impressed. He's   
so... fragile." 

Another wheeze from James. Apparently something offensive concluded Pete as   
the grip tightened yet again, finding his vocal chords lacking Pete made a   
violent and a very rude gesture toward Barnes, basically hinting to shut the   
fuck up and not to irritate the 6'9 woman with a hand around his throat. An   
apologetic wheeze seemed to indicate that James got the message. 

About the time Pete was starting to see black clouds, he thought he heard   
Ben's voice. He was not exactly sure what the old man was saying, but the   
next thing he knew he was flying again... falling...somewhere. 

The last sound he heard before the darkness claimed him was Ben's agonized   
scream, "Nooo! It's too early!" 

Coming to hurt. His vision swam. Shaking his head didn't help but eventually   
things did begin to come into focus. 

He was in a small room, in a middle of a circle painted on the wooden floor.   
He was dressed in the same, twice torn suit, a feet from the circle there   
was a familiar spiraling pentagram with only one change, a thin silver   
thread slashed across it. The room seemed even smaller because of the   
towering bookshelves along the walls. 

Feeling more than seeing or hearing another presence in the apartment, Pete   
turned painfully and looked, strangely unsurprised as he made out the face   
above him, "Hey there. You look like shit." 

"Yeah well, you are dead. Get off my clean floor." Romany Wisdom sniffed   
disdainfully and moved away to give her brother room to get up. 

To Be Continued...   
  



	2. The Shadow Waltz.

  
***** 

The cold rain was sheeting straight down, as the wind died away for a moment. Wiping his face, Malchus sighed and tried to orient himself. He   
hated being wet. The leather jacket stood up to the liquid onslaught for a considerable time but eventually gave up and decided that it just wasn't   
worth it. As far as Malchus could tell the Path had let him out in New York. That meant he would have to cross the entire country to catch up to   
his target. And he was not sure he was going to be in time. Wistfully he considered for moment reopening the Path, but even as he entertained the   
idea for a split second he knew that it would be... unwise, to say the least. 

Rather capricious at the best of times, the Ways were presently downright unstable. Unnaturally so. Witness his landing some several thousands miles   
short of his planned destination. Sighing, Malchus dragged a hand through his wet hair and determinedly began making his way toward the subway stop. 

*** 

"You suck!" 

"Wot?!!" 

"You suck so much ass, your lungs are brown!" 

"WOT?!" 

Romany Wisdom paused for a second, looking around for another object to throw. The nearest manuscript looked temptingly heavy, but judging   
Cagliostro's "Ruminations" to be much too valuable she settled for launching a pillow at the dark figure behind the sofa. "I can't believe you! Do you   
know what Markoff said? He said that I am getting younger every day! And you? You?! The best you could come up is 'You were uglier yesterday'?!   
Bastard!" 

Pete Wisdom sighed resignedly, and ducked out of the missile's way. He didn't really have to, the pillow hardly being all that dangerous, but old   
habits die hard. Usually Romany threw heavier things. Some of them with sharp edges. 

Seeing that his sister was momentarily out of ammunition, he decided to reason with her. "Markoff? That little sod just wants to get in yer pants.   
Or skirt. Or robe. Or whatever it is you are wearing these days... 'Ey! Put. The. Cup. Down." 

Romany grinned evilly and hefted the large, crystal... thing. "Oh? Or what? You know... I never liked this monstrosity. It has no redeeming artistic   
value whatsoever. I bet it's fun to go boom, though." 

"'Ey! Don't even! I got two of me fingers broken in that championship game... Come on... Put it down." 

Romany looked at the object in her hand. She looked at her brother. She looked back at the bowl. A slow and extremely malevolent smile spread across   
her face. "Tell me I look pretty." 

"Ye're a sodding Cindy Crawford, all right? Just put it down gently... " 

"Say it like you mean it."   
  


Sometime later the Wisdom siblings were sitting outside the house, on a somewhat dilapidated porch, and watching the sunset. It was one of those   
evenings when one feels strangely at peace with the world, ready for whatever is to come. The shadow of the house enveloped them. The familiar,   
rickety form of the building, in which Romany spent so much time during her apprenticeship, felt dependable and... safe. It felt, as always when she   
came to the US, like a bit of home. She sat on the steps, watching the crimson-golden disc disappear slowly below the tree line, her blue eyes   
narrowed in thought, her hand absently pushing the stray lock of hair out of her eyes and back behind the ear. Pete lounged languidly in a bowl-shaped   
chair, his leg hooked over the armrest, a cigarette in his lips, watching Romany. 

"Ye're beautiful, y'know that?" 

Romany started, jerked out of her reverie by a quiet and unusually serious comment. Blushing, she self-consciously tugged on a blanket draped around   
her shoulders. "Oh, be quiet. Don't worry, your precious Cup is safe." 

Pete grinned at her embarrassment, understanding it completely. Neither of them was very comfortable with open show of emotion. Most of the affection   
came through the banter. Still... 

"You are. Can do better than that prick Markoff, too." 

"Lionel is a premiere expert in Darikimsa necromancy rituals, I'll have you know." 

"Right. A nerd." 

Romany's eyes glinted, suddenly hard. "And? So am I, brother dear. So is Kitty." 

Pete lazily pinched the cigarette between two fingers and deftly shook off the ash. "Yeah, but you are the good kind. 'E's a pimple. A snobby punk, who   
doesn't know nearly as much as he thinks 'e does. I don't like 'im." 

"That's more of an endorsement than a determent." 

"Oooh, throwing 'em fancy words around again? I must be hitting a mark."   
Moving the fag to another corner of his mouth, Pete squinted very studiously at the setting sun, "And since you mentioned 'er... How is Pryde?" 

Romany smiled, a sudden gleam of white teeth starkly visible in the swiftly encroaching darkness. The same darkness usefully hid a little sadness   
entering her eyes as she threw a glance at her brother. "About time. I thought you were going to explode. Been two days and you never mentioned   
her." 

"What's done is past. Besides we 'ad us enough to think about." 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah - cut the bull. Color me impressed with your stoicism and how well you are coping. That girl was the best thing to happen to you, and   
you know it. Or you're dumber than I thought." 

The solitary spark split the night air, flying in the uneven arc until finally losing itself in the grass. Wisdom followed the progress of the   
discarded cigarette. His face unreadable, "So how is she?" 

"Last I heard she was all right. But that was a while ago." A slight frown of worry creased Romany's brows. "She emailed me just before that High   
Evolutionary mess... haven't heard from her since, though." 

Pete nodded, his face retreating farther in the shadows, his voice almost too even and measured. "And... Da? How's 'e taking it?" 

"Hard. You know him. When he heard... it was bad. He dried up a week ago or so, about the time I left for America, now he's just a little more   
cantankerous than usual." 

Pulling the blanket tighter about her shoulders, Romany sighed. "He does love you, y'know... You should talk." 

"No." The answer was flat, leaving no place for argument. "You said it yourself - I'm going back, as soon as I bag the bad guy. No point in   
dragging any of this out." 

"And the kids? They were the only ones I saw at your funeral, you know... " 

"X-Force? Hrm... No... No. I taught them what I could. They're on their own now. They'll be fine. They'll be all right." 

"Yeah... they seemed competent enough." 

"Bloody right." A short pause later, Pete asked quietly, " So, they were only ones that came, then?" 

"Yeah." 

"Huh..." After some faint shuffling sounds, a defiant reply carried from the depths of the chair, "Well, sod that for a penny. Who gives a flying fuck." 

Romany half-turned, to shoot the figure behind her a sarcastic glance.   
"Riiight." 

Silence stretched. Not the heavy, uncomfortable pause that strains the conversations, making all in the vicinity search with dread for some silence   
breaker that won't sound completely false. No, it was one of those companionable silences that sometimes descend on the exchange between two   
people that know each other very well. The warm San Francisco night air enveloped the pair, their thoughts losing concentration and splitting to go   
their separate paths... It was only some time later that Pete finally noticed that Romany's shoulders were trembling under the cover of her shawl. He   
blinked disbelievingly - it couldn't be what it seemed like. It... just couldn't. Romany didn't cry. Ever. Period. 

The stifled sob, all the harsher because of the stillness around them, snapped something inside him and threw him across the porch. He hugged her   
awkwardly, for once completely at a loss as her sobs became louder and he felt tears soak through his shirt. Her first punch came almost as a relief.   
"You dumb idiot! How could you have been so stupid?! Stupid!!" 

Silently taking her blows on his shoulder, Pete bit the inside of his cheek, cursing himself for not knowing what to say. 

*** 

She screwed up and now she was going to die. The thought kept running through Deb's head, over and over again, as she tried to lose her pursuers   
in the dark backstreets of Moscow. She gasped and stopped to catch her breath, gingerly feeling her side, wet with blood. She bit her lip, and   
forced herself forward. At this rate she was going to bleed to death, but she didn't have any choice. Deb shook her head, as she broke into a   
stumbling run toward the dark alley ahead. She still couldn't believe the gall of the attack. They tried to kill her in the middle of the store! It   
wasn't 1994 for God's sake! And yet, she reflected grimly, as another bout of lightheadedness overtook her, they apparently were going to succeed. She   
strained her hearing, but with no effect. No matter, they couldn't be far behind... apparently Parkov finally decided to take her seriously... the   
guys he sent were professionals. She stumbled, her foot skating from under her, and fell heavily into the puddle. The wounded arm and side screamed in   
pain at the contact with the pavement. As the white lights swam before her eyes, Deb Levin realized, with cold certainty, that she was not going to get   
up again. She screwed up and now she was going to die. The approaching, shuffling steps penetrated the fog in her head and she reached for her   
gun... Dammit, if she was going to die, she wasn't going to go alone. 

*** 

Eventually Romany's sobs died down into occasional sniffles. Wiping her face with the edge of her shawl, she turned away from Pete and collected herself   
with a shuddering sigh. They were both on the steps, Romany leaning against him, her coverlet now around both of them. Horribly unsure of the situation,   
Pete carefully put his hand on his sister's shoulder, still at a loss for words. The latter sniffled one last time and looked at him, her red, puffy   
eyes challenging. Kissing her temple softly, Pete whispered the only phrase that came to his mind, "I'm sorry, Rom. I'm so sorry." 

Romany's glare softened, and her arm reached out to fondly run her fingers through his hair. " You were always a fool, bro. You know that? I've missed   
you." 

Latching on the familiar, bantering tone with desperate effort to get his thought back under control, Pete summoned back the usual flippant reply.   
"Well, shows 'ow much taste you 'ave, don't it?" 

Punching him in the shoulder one last time, Romany got up. "Smartass. C'mon back into the house and tell me this brilliant plan of yours." 

The house, with the air-conditioning oriented on a pair of Londoners, was much colder that weather outside, so it was almost a given that the   
discussion was relocated to the kitchen, and accompanied by tea. Carefully handling the pot, Romany poured the steaming water into Pete's cup then   
filled her own. Blowing to cool the liquid a little, she quirked an eyebrow at her brother, whose eyes were staring unseeingly through the window at the   
darkness outside of the lamp-lit room. "What's with you?" 

Making an uncertain grimace, Pete absently reached for the cup. "Nothing. Just can't believe it's been three weeks. It's the dumbest cliche ever, but   
still... I swear I was there no more than a day. Gives me the creeps." 

Watching him slyly, Romany shrugged, "Actually you were early. I wasn't expecting the Summoning to work for at least another couple of days... Not   
that I'm complaining." 

Pete traced the smooth circle of the steaming cup's rim and ran his tongue against the back of his teeth. He'd needed several seconds to realize who   
was that gray, ancient person towering over his prone form when he'd dropped out of the Otherside. Only the familiar black glasses and mocking blue eyes   
staring at him let him recognize Romany. And that scared him, more than he was willing to admit even to himself. He was never comfortable with his   
sister's 'hobby' but seeing her aged by nearly half a century put things into a whole new perspective. Markoff had told him, somewhat accusingly,   
that she could have used a 'pleader', a blood sacrifice, but instead of blood and fire ritual she'd opted to anchor the Summoning thread on her own   
life cache. Only now, two days after, Romany's face was free of lines and liver spots, her hair again jet black... 

His musings were interrupted as Romany carefully took a sip from her own cup. "Oooh that's nice... Well - spill. Whatcha gonna do?" 

Pete grinned nastily, banishing the unwelcome thoughts. "Guess." 

Watching Romany's eyes narrow dangerously, he blinked at her innocently and contentedly took a healthy gulp of tea. 

To his credit he retained enough presence of mind not to spit it out on his sister even as the scalding liquid was searing his throat and the   
aforementioned sister was laughing uncontrollably. 

"Gwuaaargh... You, witch... Oh, that's fookin' hot!" 

Somewhere from the general vicinity of the floor where she'd slid while being less than commiserating to his plight, Romany commented in a voice   
still weak from laughter about divine justice, collapsing with mirth again at his response in the form of a string of expletives. 

It is amazing really just how powerful a weapon laughter can be. A healer, a protector, a peacemaker. It wards off fears and soothes the soul. As a   
sudden summer breath it stormed through the little kitchen, chasing away the last shreds of awkwardness and ushering the familiar routine of spiteless   
repartee back in. 

*** 

The gun handle slipped, sticky with blood, and Deb bit her lip, swearing softly. Blocking the pain as best she could she dragged herself to the   
nearest wall and propped herself up, her right side directly against the cold wet bricks, hiding the Beretta with her body, her back to the entrance   
of the alley, her instincts screaming at her as she made herself as easy a target as possible. The unfocused vision and creeping, sleepy tiredness   
warned her of the nearing blackout and she prayed silently that whoever was tailing here would find her before she passed out. 

The steps splashed loudly through the puddles pooled on the cracked dirty-gray asphalt, ringing deafeningly in her ears. Magnified by the echo   
ringing inside the small arch over the entrance to the alley, they seemed almost too loud to bear. The temptation to look was overpowering. The   
minutes slowed as she clicked the safety off, holding her breath, listening to the approaching sounds. Closer... and closer... and closer... 

Finally, they stopped, directly behind her. 

A hand on her shoulder... 

Hot breath on her neck... 

Now. 

*** 

"So the Company is still running?" Pete shot the teapot a venomous glare and added another sugar cube to his cup. 

"Got your ego inflated in afterlife, did you? What did you really think, they were going to fall apart without your enlightened hand to guide them?   
You did... you really did, didn't you?" Romany's mood seemed to be getting better by the second on the other hand. 

"Did not." 

"Did too." 

"Did not!" 

"Did too. I can SO tell." 

"Liar. So... you kept up with it?" 

"A bit. They didn't come to the funeral you know... any of them." 

"They better not've! I'd friggin' haunt their asses all the way to Timbuktu if they were stupid enough to pull a dumbass stunt like that." 

"Yeah, well... whatever. Carradine came by. Said if I ever needed anything and all that usual claptrap... Hinted not so subtly that there is a place   
for me in the... Company. So yeah, they are still in business. Why?" 

Drumming his fingers on the black surface of the table, Pete chewed on his lower lip before finally answering, "You were right on the money with the   
'too early' part. I'm not exactly sure who is the guy. I am going to need some help... I figured I'd rope the Quartet into helping." 

"Those degenerates?! You won't contact your Excalibur buddies in the X-men or even X-Force, but you are going to ask those ...those... goofballs for   
help? Are you off your nutter? That's your great and wonderful plan?" 

"Now, now. No reason to get nasty about it, Rom." Pete hid the small grin behind his hand and turned away, suddenly overtaken by a cough at the look   
on Romany's face. "I'll go get the stuff together while you scrounge up their whereabouts, then?" 

"@$$%." 

"Right. Cheerio, then." 

*** 

Unfair. 

It was just simply, so very unfair. 

Deb suddenly felt her lips tremble. It wasn't fair. She even timed it perfectly. The bullet would have taken the goon straight under the chin...   
but she was so tired. Sluggish... It was still unfair! He had no right grabbing her gun like that. He was supposed to stay there and take his   
bullet to the head. Unfair. 

The long, thin face framed by the shoulder-long black hair was right above her, gun held somewhere out of her vision. She thought she knew most of   
Parkov's 'boys' but this one was unfamiliar to her. Did he bring in a 'specialist' to deal with her? Unfair. Unfair-unfair-unfair. 

The unhappy scowl on that face was last thing her mind registered before unconsciousness finally, mercifully claimed her. 

*** 

"Well?" Pete scowled, tapping his foot impatiently outside the closed door to his sister's room. "Get on with it, Rom." 

"Go have another pot of coffee." 

"Why?" 

"Because I swear to God if you make me redo my makeup one more time, Jesus himself won't be able to resurrect you!" 

With the inherent sensitivity that, as everyone agreed, was a major part of his unique charm, Pete somehow recognized that Romany was not in the best of   
moods. Or it might have been the heavy thud against the other side of the door. One or the other. 

Nodding decisively Pete boldly retreated into the kitchen, giving the ugly phenomenon known as morning a finger on his way to the stove. 

Someone might have argued that 1 PM can hardly be classified as morning. That someone would have to be a person with a very badly atrophied set of   
survival instincts. 

The younger Wisdom was well into his second cup of Maxwell when the sharp clicking sound unmistakably belonging to either a pair of high heels or a   
very determined woodpecker caught his attention. "Well final...ly." 

Clamping a small cell-phone closed and dropping it into her handbag Romany gave her brother the evil eye and descended down the stairs, moving past   
the kitchen door with utmost dignity and only two words -- "Shut it." 

Raising his hands to deny that he had even a hint of a wish to comment, Pete firmly forced his eyebrows down and opened the door, letting his sister   
through. "Who were you calling?" 

"People. You are not the only one in the family with low friends in low places, you know." Narrowing her eyes at Pete suspiciously, Romany   
majestically carried herself out the door onto the porch. Locking the door and still uncharacteristically silent, Pete quickly moved past her toward   
the car. Following him, Romany muttered something under her breath.   
No reaction. 

Opening the car door for her, Pete studiously kept his eyes to the side. Romany 'accidentally' swung her bag, catching him in the nose.   
No reaction. 

By the time he got in and started the engine, Romany had enough. "Oh, shuddup, I said! You look just as stupid in that tuxedo as I do in this...   
getup!" 

"I didn't say anything! You look very... very... refined. Yes. Refined. Very." 

"Just. Drive." 

The San Francisco streets were surprisingly empty for the middle of the day. Unless one took into account the anarchy that had gripped the city less than   
a month ago. The National Guard patrols still manned the checkpoints and a silver glint of a Helicarrier in the sky bore witness to SHIELD's presence   
in the city. 

The scarcity of traffic was made up somewhat by the constant noise of the construction crews that struggled to repair the damage borne by the city   
during the brief but violent affair christened by the press "The Bay of Freaks." It was still unknown what had caused the citywide outbreak of those   
seemingly spontaneous cases of mutation. Just as no one knew why it had stopped as suddenly as it began. The relief organizations that arrived on   
the scene were met by thousands of confused and frightened people and a city that literally stood on the brink of complete disintegration. The hospitals   
were overpopulated with patients, the vast majority undergoing psychiatric rather than physical rehabilitation. 

Still, the city was slowly getting over its wounds. The looting and rioting that inevitably followed the initial incident were quelled with surprising   
ease and efficiency by the city police. That of course left a certain portion of the media all the more frustrated with no clear scapegoat for the   
incident. The rumors of government conspiracies, of Islamic and mutant terrorists - all the wild theories of similar sorts began running rampant   
through the country when no one claimed credit for the event. 

The President's address to the nation left almost all of the questions unanswered but, surprisingly, his plea for calm and help resonated widely   
across the country and the world. Still reeling from the recent attack of a deranged scientist who called himself High Evolutionary, the people reacted   
to the man on his way out of the most powerful office in the world. When he appeared on national television, suddenly looking old and tired, and without   
his usual smooth aplomb asked them to come together in this hour of need, it somehow penetrated the jaded cynicism of the nation more than any polished   
speech might have. 

As he maneuvered the BMW through the streets, Pete's face grew harder, his lips pressing together in a thin line. Eventually, as was bound to happen,   
he reached inside his jacket... only to receive a sharp pinch. "Ey!" 

Romany, seemingly still napping, replied calmly without opening her eyes, "You want to kill your liver - be my guest. Just not in my car." 

"Oh that's smart. Pinch the bloke behind the wheel. Freakin' genius." 

"What's your problem?" 

"Aside from the fact that I lost all feeling in me right arm?" 

"Don't get smart. You've been a pain in the butt all day." 

"Well I AM dea.." 

"Sell that line somewhere else, I am not buying any." 

"Witch." 

"Spill." 

Pete scowled at his passenger, who still hasn't bothered to open her eyes. "Oh, fine. 'S a little too pat is all. You haven't paid attention to the   
Quartet for a year or so and yet the same day I mention that I need 'em there suddenly turns up the old invite. And what do you know - it's today.   
And will wonders never cease? It's in Frisco. This stinks." 

"Not too bright today, are we?' 

"Eh?" 

Romany sighed and, opening her eyes, looked at Pete, "Think, stupid. You told me yourself what happened to cause all this. Remember?" 

"The... Synchrony... Synchronicity? Something like that." 

"You got it. Trust me, if this is the only coincidence we are going to run into before this is over, I'll marry Markoff." 

"Aha! Knew you couldn't possibly like that prick." 

"Stay out of my love life, Pete." 

"What love life?" 

"Oh...oh, you don't really want to go there, do you?" 

"I'm not afraid. So about this Synchrony thing..." 

"It's like this. Right now everything is more or less in balance. All the 'pieces' are in place. You and the bad-evil bloke are both on the same plane   
and know what you have to do. From now on, the whole Universe is going to do whatever possible to speed the process up. It wants a resolution, you see.   
This thing is just too big. I mean, even I saw it in the leaves, and I never deal with foretelling. Just haven't got the eye for it. This though... this   
is huge, bro. Millions and millions of worlds... and you two are the ones that have to get the End started. Don't fuck it up." 

"That's a very reassuring phrasing there, Rom. With the '... End is near' and everything. Appreciate it." 

"No problem." 

"So the Universe is on my side. Nice." 

"Nope." 

"It's not nice?" 

"It's not on your side. It's not on anyone's side." 

"But it's gonna help me find the mokker, right?" 

"Yep. It will also help him find you. After that you are both on your own." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah." 

"Shite." 

"Yeah." 

*** 

Mortimer Hoverne sighed and looked sadly at the Persian vase. The Persian vase looked back, totally unrepentant about currently being two pieces of a   
vase rather than a whole. "This simply will not do." The stern tone that usually worked wonders with the staff made little discernable impression   
on the vase. "Aiaiai." 

"Hey Mortimer, what's up?" 

Turning around, the unofficial master of d'Arfoix household eloquently presented both halves of the vase for observation. 

"Ooh. That's not good." 

Mortimer nodded, in complete agreement with the analysis, his pale blue eyes half-hidden by a frown. 

Thom screwed up his face in concentration, looking at the halves intently. "Hold on a sec... Isn't this the thing that Alex gave Nick for that thing at   
that shtick a month ago?' 

"The very same, master Thomas. The very same, I am afraid." 

"Oh whew. Jeez, scared me there for a second. Don't worry about it - it's a fake. Alex, genius that he is, did buy the vase but it didn't get here in   
time. So the schmuck got this together. Don't worry about it. Say... umm,   
bathroom?" 

"Down the corridor, first door on your left." 

"Excellente." 

Whistling cheerfully, Thom made his way toward the restroom, shaved head glinting merrily with reflected light. 

Mortimer looked at the remnants in his hands doubtfully, wincing somewhat painedly as he heard a loud crash from the Grand Ballroom. 

"Oops..." 

"Dammit, Jack, that's the second vase in half an hour! Watch where you steer that thing!" 

"Shut up! I haven't been in the wheelchair for 10 years! It is NOT like riding a fucking bicycle, I don't care what Doc says." 

The rest of the exchange was quickly drowned out by the din of the general conversation in the room. Checking his involuntary motion toward this   
newest disturbance, Mortimer thought better of it and made for the doors. At least there were no car accidents yet, he consoled himself, smoothing   
short salt-and-pepper hair. 

The valet started somewhat as he saw the familiar, tall, dignified figure exit to the veranda and, in a panic, sucked the traitorous cigarette   
straight into his mouth. Seeing that the boy was starting to turn purple and a thin wisp of smoke was coming out of his nose, Mortimer hurriedly   
looked away to give him the opportunity to dispose of the incriminating evidence... without setting his intestinal tract on fire. The   
coughing-quasi-retching spitting sound behind him, followed by something that closely resembled a thankful prayer, certified that Luigi was no   
longer in any immediate danger of choking. Sighing, the butler, who suddenly looked much younger than his usual 40-something appearance, drew   
in the warm air Californian air. None of the infamous smog here. Just a faint smell of leather seats left to heat in the sun, the freshly cut   
grass from the gardens mingling together with the aroma from the kitchen and the indefinable smell of summer... 

*** 

They were hunting her again. Again. The Neo... She couldn't run fast enough. She couldn't hide deep enough. The cold, mocking laugh chasing   
her. Like a whip forcing her on. They were on her heels. The bullets were all gone, the Beretta's barrel distended and empty, but her finger still   
convulsively kept tugging on the trigger, the clicks of the hammer futile and hopeless... 

She knew what was going to happen next. She knew and yet she couldn't seem to stop herself or change anything. A wall suddenly grew in front of her,   
blocking the corridor. She knew it would, but again, as on that day months ago, she did not stop in time. 

The shoulder-jarring impact threw her on the floor, the gun skidding across the dirty and worn linoleum, the laugh... That same laugh, closer   
now... She turned, as she knew she would and saw them again. Standing in front of her... The Neo and the girl with the sketchpad. 

In a moment, she knew they would bind her and then the pain would begin. The PAIN. The memory, white-hot and searingly clear, forced itself to the   
front of her mind, suddenly freeing her. She would not be 'processed' again. Deb Levin's eyes flew open and her hand snaked out, closing with   
the unerring force and accuracy on the throat of the man in front of her. 

"Ack! Grigogh kagh tosh rekh." 

"Oh for crying out loud... Grigori! Your guest is awake." The voice came somewhere from behind Deb, a rich and cultured baritone of an elder man. 

"And?" The second, gruffly impatient voice of a smoker seemed to come from another room... But she was in the lower levels of The Slush club...   
wasn't she? That's where they'd captured her, that's where all the slaves were kept... What room? The Neo.... They were playing with her mind again! 

"Unless you come quickly, Filofei isn't going to be conscious for much longer. It appears that the young lady took a somewhat strong exception   
to him." 

"Ah, chtob tebe... Coming." 

Moments later she felt a vise-like grip fastened on her arm, clamping on the pressure point. She heard more than saw her hand opening and a   
coughing retreat of her recent captive. Then the gray fog filling her eyes parted for a moment and reality collided with her memory. 

She was in a bed. A rather spacious bed. And she was warm. Some portion of her mind immediately ceased any conscious function to devote all its   
efforts to reveling in that positively glorious feeling of un-wetness and un-freezing. The rest of her brain went on with admittedly sluggish   
assessment of her surroundings. 

The man who she'd earlier assumed to be a Parkov's gunman was standing next to her, still gripping her arm - although with just a portion of his   
strength. She looked at his hand dumbly for a second, slowly following the lines of long fingers and the seam of a white shirt sleeve up to   
shoulder-length black hair, then to a scowling face and black eyes. 

Behind him she could see another two men, one dressed in what looked like an Italian suit helping another wearing a some-20-years outdated uniform   
of the Soviet army, sans the hat. The latter was throwing her venomous looks from which she assumed that he must be Filofei. He also seemed   
rather short and very... hairy. Of course periodically he dissolved into a large green blob with a gooey red center - clinically Deb decided that she   
had lost way too much blood to trust her judgement right now. 

Her musings were interrupted by the longhaired guy who was apparently the one who'd carried her here - here being a rather large apartment from what   
she could tell. Still towering above her, a by-now-familiar scowl on his face, bushy eyebrows brought into a nearly unbroken line above his eyes,   
"Are you quite done manhandling my man now, mademoiselle?" 

Deb digested the question. She pondered it carefully and weighted the options, eventually settling on a careful affirmative nod. 

"Thank you. I think it's about time we were properly introduced. What is your name and why were you bleeding on my building?" 

"Levin. Deb Levin. I was shot. And it hurt." 

"It usually does. My... associate examined you. You are dehydrated but will most likely leeeevvv..." 

Deb blinked and shook her head furtively, to bring the speaker back in focus. By the time his face made sense again, he was still frowning. "Deb   
Levin... You are Jewish." 

"Yes. Got a problem with the Jews?" The question paradoxically had a calming effect on her, anti-Semitism being familiar ground. 

"Only the ones that try to strangle the help." 

Deb firmly squashed the notion of sticking her tongue out at him. "Fine, I'll try not to do it anymore. Could I get something to drink? And who are   
you people, anyway?" 

"Ah, of course. Well the... ahem... fellow you manhandled is Filofei Kropotkin." Nodding his head at her curtly, the short man disappeared out of   
the room, muttering irritably under his breath. "The gentleman next to him is Fedor Kuzmich." The man in the Italian 3-piece bowed, smiling amiably. 

"And my name is Grigori Efimovich Rasputin." 

*Grigori Efimovich Rasputin. *   
*Grigori Rasputin."   
*Rasputin... * 

Deb raised her hand very carefully and tenderly felt her head. Finding a bump, she smiled in satisfaction at the rational explanation that it   
presented, and passed out. 

*** 

The dark-blue BMW, softly braking to a stop before the steps, did not seem familiar to Mortimer but that didn't set off any alarms in his head. As much   
as he tried it proved simply impossible to keep accurate updates of the various modes of transportation that Master Nicholas'... colleagues used.   
They changed so quickly. However, if the automobile was unfamiliar to him, the same could hardly be said about the figures emerging from it. 

The lady who emerged as Luigi held her door for her looked different today that the last time he'd seen her. The denim shorts, leather jacket, long   
mane of hair and the glasses were nowhere to be seen. Instead the blue silk of an evening gown clung to her, underscoring the innate poise and   
penetrating blue eyes. As she made a characteristic motion, making her page-cut hair dance out of her eyes, she ascended the steps lightly,   
grinning at Mortimer. "So, am I still welcome here, or are you going to call the cops on me?" 

"Mademoiselle Wisdom, you are always welcome at d'Arfoix residence. Your presence is a rare gift we truly treasure." 

"Oh you smooth-talker, you." 

Mortimer bowed, extending his hand toward the opened doors in a tacit invitation. Straightening up, he caught Romany's head turning toward the car   
and reflexively followed the direction of the glance with his own eyes.   
"Merciful Lord..." 

*** 

Pete paused at the end of the corridor, just inches before the brass handles of the doors to the Ballroom. Turning, he nodded shortly. "So it's like I   
told you. I'm going to be in the Blue Room. Mortimer, and you, Rom, round up Nick, Joak and the rest and get them there. All right?" 

Mortimer inclined his head in assent. His composure returned swiftly and hadn't cracked since his first and only exclamation of disbelief when he saw   
Pete getting out of the car. Somehow that failed to surprise either of the Wisdom siblings. 

However, regardless of his self-control, Mortimer's eyes spoke plainly that he expected an explanation eventually. 

Suddenly Pete swore softly and started scratching his back furiously, until a glare from Romany stopped him. "The damn thing itches! I hate monkey   
suits." 

"Pete?" 

"Wot?" 

"Grow up." 

Giving her a finger, Pete sighed and vaulted over the rail on the stairwell. Taking the steps three at a time he soon disappeared from the pair's view.   
Now that Pete was no longer in danger of being seen by the rest of the guests, Mortimer pushed the brass handle lightly, opening the doors for   
Romany. 

The Grand Ballroom was not the heart of the mansion. It was used far too rarely to be deserving of such a title. However, on those infrequent   
occasions, when it was in fact employed, the results were... impressive. 

Remembering the social skills drummed into her long ago, Romany glided softly, gracefully and as inconspicuously as possible through the large room   
filled with people. Her lips quirked a little. Standing there in formal wear with glasses of wine in their hands they looked... nothing at all like what   
they really were. 

Until one would start catching the strands of conversations. 

"So, it's for sure then?" 

"Golden, iron clad, airtight. Is good." 

"So we are going to track down the motherfucker, right? If Valentina is sure that's it's him who offed Pete?" 

"Well - she just said that Petey was on his trail just before he got drilled, but all the evidence points to the small and ugly..." 

"It was Roman! Marie, we got to cap that son of a bitch. For Pete AND we have to make an example. Nobody gets away with pulling this shit with us!"   
  


As she wove her way through the groups of various sizes, Romany soon lost track of Mortimer. She scanned the gathering for familiar faces, expertly   
avoiding being sidetracked.   
  


"So who is in town for the celebration?" 

"You mean besides us? Oh, we got a couple of boys from Mossad over at their embassy, I spotted Richards at the Governor's..." 

"The Canuck?" 

"Yeah... well, SHIELD obviously, the Langley spooks, FBI, NSA - maybe - I'm not sure - and MI." 

"MI is here? Damn... that's... interesting. " 

"Yeah."   


Concentrating she reduced the background noise to a whisper at the back of her mind.   


"...and then the bastard put two in my ass!" 

"You were sloppy." 

"I was NOT sloppy! You just got lucky! There was a 1 in 10 chance that the Armenian would go for that story!" 

"Depends on who is telling, I suppose... Yes, yes ladies and gentlemen - I'm just that good." 

"Oh, shut up. I was sloppy, that's all." 

"... is what I'm saying."   
  


The broken strings of the chatter reached her, fluttering faintly on the edge of her consciousness as she nodded coolly to one person or the other,   
continuing on her quest.   
  


"So what do you expect?" 

"I don't know. I never expected the Quack to carry the election, to tell you the truth. It looks more than likely now, though. Kelly is trailing badly.   
And even if he takes it - on this he's the same as the Quack. We have to do something and quickly. So can I count on your vote? If you'll second me, I   
think we can push it through..." 

"You think it's that bad?" 

"If they cut SHIELD's budget one more time, I fully expect Fury to land his Heli on the Congress. While it's in session." 

The hand. Tapping her softly on the shoulder. The shy smile and the bow. Joakim. Shoot, he's still creepily sneaky. Ah, well. That's one. 

"I am telling you they are starting to notice us. God knows we've made enough noise with that Vienna thing." 

"Paid off, though." 

"Yeah, but now they are watching us and we are not ready for this yet. Too small, too new on the block." 

"New?!! Us?" 

"Not as people, as The Show. Even the Americans don't trust us. And Karim says that MI is sniffing around our accounts." 

"Americans? I thought they'd... You know..." 

"Jones. He can't figure out what we are after. We are not nationalist, we are not mercs, we don't have any practical goals as far as he can see, and   
you can imagine how much thought he gave that we are exactly what we say we are." 

"Heh... he knows some of us too well to figure us for the voluntary, self-appointed garbage collectors... We helped to make half of the messes   
we are cleaning up, for Crissakes." 

"Yeah, and in his book that makes us..." 

"Unpredictable." 

"Dangerous."   
  


There. The familiar mane of red hair accompanied by the stentorian voice. That's two.   
  


"Well what do you expect? The man is going bonkers from all that paperwork - so he has nothing better to do than... well - this." 

"But...but... The Nightwatch?! I don't want to be a freaking Nightwatchman! It's dumb." 

"Cut him some slack, all right?" 

"Well, why can't we just stay with The Compan?. It has a nice ring to it. It's dignified. It's traditional." 

"Yeah. So traditional that every two-bit agency now goes by it." 

"But... The Nightwatch? I mean... it's like the flipping Avengers. What the hell are they avenging? Why are they avenging it? Next he's going to go   
completely spandex!" 

"Heh. I can just see it now - The Regency... or The Power... or The Earthguard." 

"Shoot me. Shoot me now."   
  


The motion in the corner of her vision drew her attention momentarily. Mortimer. He's found Nick. That means only one is left...   
  


"What are you talking about? The man is a fucking genius!" 

"Did you hear me argue? He's still going down sooner rather than later unless something changes. He's simply stretched too thin. Yeah, by all   
reasonable estimates SHIELD should have buckled back in 1999. I am still not sure how Bridge and Fury held it all together. But look at the whole   
picture, man. Eventually, Hydra is going to pull itself back in shape. This little - what is it now, 7-sided? 

" Six... I think." 

"Whatever - the slaughter isn't going to last forever. Now that they see the Hand rolling into their turf they are going to make quick-quick with the   
slash-slash and elect a successor to von Strucker. And then what? SHIELD's budget is barely making it now, even with all the patents they are holding.   
They are going on luck, guts and skill and they are flipping exhausted. That caper in Pretoria will buy 'em some time but eventually they have to face   
the facts. Their opposition is getting stronger and more organized while they are being slowly declawed. They can't count on Europeans anymore, not   
with France pushing for more autonomy. Hell, the EU resented the fact that the Interpol is practically a bureau of SHIELD for ages. And that Quick   
Reaction force they are talking about now - how do you think they plan to pay for it? Stupid. They've got the Genoshans training a whole new   
generation of Magnetos and Ravens, and they... ah, fuck it. You know it and I know it, if SHIELD goes down there is going to be a boom to end all   
booms."   


Ah. Finally. There he is, being the life of the party. Expertly culling the familiar, hulking figure from the crowd, she gently herded him and the rest   
toward the exit.   
  


"No way..." 

"Yep. They finally got the fat goat-sucker." 

"What's that?" 

"Karl here says somebody finally nabbed Gonzales." 

"The Skinner? No way. Even the Mossad gave up on him." 

"So? They have enough trouble in their own backyard lately to worry about some Colombian dirtbag." 

"So who took him?" 

"MI." 

"Damn." 

"Yep." 

"Why? What do they care?" 

"He made a bad business decision. Took over a chunk of the Rave market." 

"Ohhh..." 

"Yep. I saw the forensic reports. They had to ID him by his teeth." 

"Well - ...you know... Hm." 

"MI." 

"The Magistry of the Interior." 

"All hail the Magneto's boys."   
  
  


"Hey, where did Nick get to?" 

"Dunno... Mortimer grabbed him a second ago." 

*** 

Romany touched Mortimer's shoulder lightly, as the last of the corralled individuals entered the Blue Room. "Hey, I need to get something... Where   
can I get a fax sent to me?" 

The majordomo reached into his packet producing a business card with d'Arfoix coat of arms and address on it. "Second number, at the bottom. The   
machine is..." 

"Yeah, thanks, I remember. Tell them I'll be back in a bit." As Mortimer nodded, Romany was already moving away, one hand gripping the card, the   
other reaching into her handbag for the cell-phone. 

Mortimer gave one last glance at the four people who were filing into the room. Three men and one woman... disturbingly alike and different at the   
same time to an outside observer. All were relatively young, only Joakim Harek had passed thirty. Each was wearing a black tuxedo - Mortimer hid a   
smile behind his hand - even Mick O'Hara. If anyone stood out among the group it was the redhead with the determined green eyes. The tuxedo suited   
Mick surprisingly well, bringing out all of her best features. 

But the most telling similarity was perhaps the unconscious wariness with which the four automatically formed a loose unit upon entering the Blue   
Room. Even Nick, Mortimer's employer and ward, let his instincts and training take over, his trust of his majordomo and Romany giving way to the   
pragmatism instilled by his years in Black Air. The blond, seemingly delicate head of the d'Arfoix Enterprises looked for all the world like a   
predator preparing for an unexpected attack. The same kind of 'readiness' prevailed among his companions as well, easily smoothing even the most   
glaring contrasts like the chance that put Thom Peregrine right next to Harek. Joakim's slender, whip-like build, pale complexion and reserved   
manner seemed completely alien compared to the massive, extravagantly muscled bulk of the black man to his right. The gold ring in Thom's earlobe   
flashed as his head swiveled searchingly through the shadows in the room's corners. Mortimer smiled again and softly closed the door. He believed   
himself to be a good judge of character and if he was correct the next few minutes would prove to be quite exciting. 

"Well... Now what? Nick?" Thom flicked an imaginary speck off his sleeve and raised an eyebrow at their host. 

"Search me... Mortimer hasn't said anything to me and Ms. Wisdom was equally... less than forthcoming." 

"I wonder why. She never liked us... Oh wait! Not never! Just since Belfast! Gee I wonder why-ever-for? Hmm..." Mick's glare left no doubt as to the   
identity of the man she blamed and Joakim hid a grin as Nick winked at him. 

Meanwhile Thom blinked in righteous indignation at this attack. "Hey! Don't look at me! How the hell should have I known that she was Pete's sister?" 

"Uh-hah... So, you molest every other girl that you meet, Tommy-boy?" 

"Did NOT! We were being followed and I did not molest her, just..." 

"Mick, leave him alone. He had enough from Pete." Giving Nick a glare to match the one that Thom was receiving Mick shut up and made for one the   
chairs around the large oval table in the middle of the room. 

"Forget Pete." Thom shuddered. "His sister is twice the bastard he thinks he is." 

"Isn't she just..." The quiet, slightly dreamy statement from the dark nook by the curtain provoked the same response from the room as a live snake   
being dropped on their heads. 

"Guh!"   
-Cha-chunk-   
-Cha-chunk-   
-Cha-Chunk- 

"Oh, please. Put down the flipping artillery. Crickety... I can't believe you stood there babbling like a bunch of schoolgirls and haven't even   
noticed me. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy." Pete grinned nastily, leaning forward in his chair until the light from the window illuminated his face. Which did   
not prove to have nearly as much of a calming effect as one might have hoped. 

"If this is a joke, I find it to be in very poor taste." Nick's eyes were narrowed ever so slightly, betraying the even voice. 

"I concur." Joakim, the only one not to draw a gun up until now, softly sidled closer to Pete. The latter grinned, catching the silver glint of a   
blade sliding from the sleeve-sheath into Harek's palm. The Quartet spread out, their initial surprise fading as they flanked him. Not half-bad of a   
reaction time in his opinion. Not half-good either, of course. 

Mick curtly motioned to Thom that he was blocking her shot, and wetted her lips, one eye squeezed shut as she took careful aim at Pete's genitalia.   
"All right... All right... All right... I think we are all entitled to an honest answer to the question that I'm sure is on all of our minds-" 

"Yeah. Who spiked the champagne?" Thom's rumbling basso delivered the joke with no hint of humor, as he moved out of Mick's way. 

"Oh, Christ... Use you brains, hah? Mortimer let me in, Romany asked you... Joakim, you are not fucking invisible. Go sit down. If you decide to thin   
me, Thom over there with his bazooka is going to get to it faster than you anyhow. Geez, Peregrine, what -- is that Dirty Harry marathon on cable   
again? Look at the size of that thing."   


*** 

"Yes, I should be getting it any second now..." 

"Splendid. I cross-referenced what I found with the databanks available to me and I can assure you that the information you are about to receive is of   
the highest quality... Despite the recent unpleasantness afflicting our organization." 

"Yeah, great. Thanks." 

"Oh my dear girl... I warned you that mere thanks would not suffice. I took considerable risks scrying the foci for you. Cthon, the information alone is   
worth ... But never mind that. Your acknowledgement that you ... shall we say owe me a favor, is enough, n'est pas?" 

Romany shivered. Every teacher she had told her stories of deals with the Devil. And the owner of the voice on the other end of the line qualified   
fully for that position in her opinion. Still, it was necessary. As Pete would say, it needed doing. What she told him was understatement if   
anything. She was not weak when it came to scrying the future - it actually hurt her. And the older she grew, the more the pain intensified. She wet her   
lips, remembering the last time. The portents were dire enough, but she'd decided to seek confirmation - messing with necromancy on omens alone... No,   
thank you. She chuckled dryly, not caring what her interlocutress would make of it. God, the migraine was horrendous enough, but the ear bleeding scared   
the crap out of her. Of course in the end it gave her the confirmation she wanted... and a way to bring Pete back. She tapped her fingers impatiently,   
waiting for the fax to warm up. No, the deal was necessary... and there was only one person who had enough skill to traverse the weave and find out the   
foci with the current disturbance raging all across it. There were bound to be people... places...that would be important in the upcoming days. There   
always were. Things like these had a certain established, time-honored operating procedure. And while the information that Pete had found out   
while gallivanting all over Netherworld was useful it was far from being   
plentiful. Ergo... 

"Oh, great... just fucking great." 

The soft chuckle startled her and she whirled around, still clutching the sheet of paper with the photograph on it. Selene Gallo nee Nehekba smiled   
at her over the goblet, black cat winding his way through her legs. "A marvelous coincidence, wouldn't you say? I simply had to see the expression   
on your face. Well ... ta-ta." 

Waiting for the rest of the dossiers to come through, Romany couldn't help but feel a little jealous. The quality of the projection was impeccable.   
"Well.. she forgot to make a poof when she disappeared! Not so perfect. Ha-ha. So there." 

The pictures of a grim, graying man listed under Dayspring, Nathan, Summers, Askani AKA Cable and a blue-skinned woman designated Raven, Darkholme AKA   
Mystique were followed by others, several all too familiar to her... 

*** 

"So while we have you here, mind telling me something?" 

"Yes, Nick.." Pete sighed tiredly. 

"Why were the Genoshans watching your funeral?" 

"Voght sent someone too? Hmm.. Beats me, I haven't pissed 'em off in a long while." 

"Peter..." Joakim began hesitantly, as Mick shot Nicholas the Look, "... this thing you're asking us to do... It is, well..." 

"Impossible." Thom said firmly. "Check it out - just too many unknowns. All you know is that the dude is seriously bad news and connected to many if not   
all dirt that's gone down. You got no clue as to the identity, or even the period when he went active. You got no hard data as to what organization the   
guy belongs to or doesn't. You got zip on his associates or links... Hell, face it, Wisdom - What you need are precogs, not Company men." The big New   
Englander shrugged a little helplessly. "I'd be... We'd be happy to help, of course, but...." 

Pete lit up another cigarette, while he contemplated his reply. In essence Peregrine was absolutely correct. Even if Rom's thing played out and she   
seemed certain that she'd be able to get some useful data, what he had was just a big cosmic coincidence. Or in other words a whole lot of nothing. Any   
other day he wouldn't even think about coming with as little as this to the table but... dammit, somehow he knew this was the right way. Just like he   
knew that contacting the X-Men was not. So now what... 

"Perhaps I may be of some assistance." Malchus' tone was a little amused as he stepped through the doors, nothing to betray the sheer exhaustion that   
was threatening to engulf him at any moment.   
  
  



	3. Opening Moves

Disclaimer: Most of recognizable characters belong to Marvel. No profit is being made. As always - many thanks go to my betareader.   
Feedback and flames are welcome.

*****

The wakefulness came suddenly, and engulfed him fully. There was none of the momentary disorientation, none of the occasional morning   
confusion that had plagued him ever since his transformation at the hands of Nur into the Horseman of Death. On this morning he rose up out   
of the dreamless sleep directly into a state of wary alertness, unsure of what had disturbed his slumber. Long-engrained habit kept him   
motionless as he scanned his surroundings, still asleep to all the world but for the slight change in his breathing pattern. He registered and   
dismissed the slight motion of the curtains stirred by an early morning Westchester breeze coming through the open window.

Checking the rest of the room, he absently took in the familiar objects, his hooded eyes sliding easily from the wakizashi on the wall, past the   
solitary photograph on the table, to the Ming vase in the corner. He could feel his frustration building as he failed to pinpoint the source of his   
uneasiness in the murkiness of the room.

He sprang out of bed suddenly, throwing away the covers. Stopping in front of the window he sighed deeply, consciously relaxing the   
tension in his muscles and finding his ka, his center, his inner calm. He peered outside, at the familiar scenery of the Mansion grounds. The   
chill air helped, and he'd almost succeeded in convincing himself that his instincts had played a trick on him, when he caught it. His nostrils   
flared slightly and he felt the hair on his neck standing up, as he checked the challenging growl rumbling at the base of his throat.

Only minutes later, as he was getting dressed, Logan realized that it had been this same sound -- his own snarl -- that woke him.

***

The sleep refused to come. By now she'd become quite proficient in recognizing the signs of true insomnia. This was it. Damn it all to hell.

The black-haired pale woman scowled at the darkness, and shifted under the covers, rearranging the pillows for the umpteenth time. It   
would fail to help her to fall asleep ... again, but at least she felt a little better as she pounded the innocent mattress into a groveling lump of   
cloth.

*If nothing else,* she thought, stubbornly refusing to admit defeat and burrowing down under the huge blanket into the depths of the   
king-sized bed, *You have to admit that the accommodations Pete arranged for X-Force are not bad.* Not bad at all. She smiled softly as   
she remembered watching the panorama of San Francisco at night from her window. She always liked cities. There was something   
inherently beautiful watching a jewel of the urban art at night, shining as a testament to human achievement.

The scowl made a triumphant comeback as she reflected on how little, on the other hand, she liked being awake at 3 am. "All his fault," she   
muttered resentfully, "I never used to get insomnia. The bastard is contagious! Damn all Summerses anyway... if I start to angst or any   
long-lost relatives begin to show up, I am tracking his metal ass down and doing something unpleasantly permanent to him."

Alas, even the momentary vision of Cable in a pool of sharks, as satisfying as it was in other respects, did not appear to have much of an   
effect on her insomnia. Cursing under her breath, Domino propped the pillows up yet again and sat down cross-legged at the head of the   
bed, still maintaining a proprietary grip on the blanket. In fact, if some unlucky soul would have chanced upon observing her at the moment,   
the only impression he could have gotten would be that of two violet eyes blazing balefully from the darkness of the make-shift cocoon of   
bed linen.

As she leaned back against the head-rest, Domino gasped softly at the sensation of the wooden frame coming into contact with that... thing   
on her back. She shuddered slightly in disgust, the reaction muted only partly by the time she'd spent coming to terms with having something   
so completely alien in her body. Sighing deeply she closed her eyes and forced herself into the beginning stages of the meditative trance   
Logan had taught her long ago. Slowly she counted down from ten, taking long, even breaths, but the   
simple technique of emptying her mind eluded her.

Every time she tried, the same vision kept swimming before her eyes - Gryaznova. The cyborg Sentinel who'd made the destruction of   
Domino her mission in life. Biting her lip in a desperate attempt to keep the memories away, the mutant sometimes called the luckiest woman   
alive did not notice the slight shaking of her hands. By chance or skill Gryaznova had found Domino's deepest fear and exploited it ruthlessly.   
Domino still wasn't sure that the physical effects of the neural inhibitor that Gryaznova had implanted in her head to deaden her reflexes were   
completely gone. She'd hoped the psychological effects were.

She thought she dealt with it just like she dealt with memories of what Tolliver had done to her. It had been a while since he came to taunt   
her in her dreams... since she woke up screaming thinking that sweaty bundle of blankets around her were the straps trapping her on the   
surgical table... that the chilly feel of Cable's techno-organic arm was the scalpels biting into her flesh...

The warm liquid streaking down her chin jerked Domino out of her nightmares. Realizing that she'd bit down hard enough to draw blood   
from her lip, Dom swore and carefully got out of bed. All she needed now was a lecture from Tabitha on housekeeping. *Oh, yeah.   
Wouldn't she just love to get back at me after all the 'talks' I had to have with her about clearing at least some paths through the obstacle   
course she called her room.*

Thankfully she somehow managed not to get blood on the bed-linens.. or the floor, as she threw on a shirt and quietly tiptoed her way to the   
bathroom. Making noise and waking the others up would be a BAD thing. The kids looked totally wiped out, as if they hadn't gotten a   
decent sleep in weeks. True it was only a week or so, since the funeral...

She paused with her hand on a med-cabinet, and yet again second-guessed her decision. She'd returned to the US, firmly realizing that this   
time she really did need help. While not liking it one bit, she was not stupid enough to deny the realities of life. Tsung was better than her.   
Much, much better. She sighed and opened the wooden locker, scanning for a package of Band-Aids.

Her choices had grown depressingly limited of late. Not that many people left she _could_ ask for help any more. Logan and Cable had   
apparently fallen off the face of the Earth along with the rest of the X-Men, Grizzly took a job for Wakanda and right now was somewhere   
in the middle of Congo, if alive. Bridge... had his hands full apparently. With all the stuff on his mind, she could only too well imagine his   
reaction if she did ask him for help. Domino grinned crookedly as she ripped the package apart. *The old chauvinist would put me in a lock   
up with a 24-hour armed guard. For my own protection of course. Yeah, that's all I need. SHIELD on my back.*

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, while reluctant to admit it even to herself -- she didn't... trust Bridge with this. Couldn't. He always had   
been a man of strong loyalties and SHIELD suited him all too well. Gave him that purpose in life he'd been looking for, ever since his Army   
days. She didn't REALLY think he'd turn her over to their medlabs... but he might. And so she went looking for Pete and X-Force. Only   
Pete was dead.

Closing the mirror-door Domino purposefully aimed the bandage at her face, only to swear yet again when she could see nothing but   
unblemished, pale skin. "Fuck! I can't even bleed in peace without Junior being helpful! Bugger!"

Putting the supplies back, Domino resisted the urge to slam the cabinet closed. She leaned against the sink looking at her reflection with   
unseeing eyes.

She knew that she wasn't being rational, wasn't in top form. Waking up one day with an organic implant in her had been bad, but the hunt   
that followed, the days upon days of feeling watched, the ugly crawling shiver along her spine.... That was worse.

She called the memories of her slaughtered team to mind, dispassionately replaying the mission, trying yet again to catch something   
significant, some details she might have missed then... something that could help her get to Tsung first, this time. She slammed down the   
beginning snarl. None of that nonsense now. But even when examined coldly, the slaughter of her team offered little insight into the   
weaknesses of her opponent. His execution was flawless. Theoretically the chances of one man taking out a standard-size merc team were   
astronomical at best. And this group had been better than most. Yet Tsung cut them apart with almost surgical precision, seemingly   
anticipating their every contingency. They never even saw him until he decided to give her a glimpse of his face... Vain? Sadistic? There was   
something there...

The sudden, abrupt, soft sound rudely jerked Domino out of her reverie. Without even thinking she threw the cabinet open again and palmed   
the small hold-out gum, sliding noiselessly out of the bathroom a second later. The sounds came with harsh irregularity, sometimes muted,   
then louder. Only as she neared the origin of the noise did realization strike Domino. It was the sound of crying.

"Tabby... Come on, Boom, huh? Issok... it's gonna be ok... Really... Please don't cry. Please?"

"Shu'up." A short sniffling sound followed, acutely reminding Domino of that evening, not long after the Six Pack had broken up, when she   
ruined Grizzly's shirt after making the mistake of attempting to chart out her future with a bottle of vodka. One of the few times liqueur   
made her cry and not shoot things.

Still sniffling, Tabitha continued in a rough, quiet voice hiccuping a little occasionally, as stray sobs attempted to break through, "This is my room. I'll cry if I   
wanna. You're only here 'cos I'm out of tissues and you have a silk shirt."

"Had a silk shirt..." Samuel Guthrie's voice was manfully firm, although if he kept to form that was probably the only silk shirt... hell, the only   
silk article of clothing in his wardrobe. And even that was probably courtesy of Lila Chaney. Putting the safety on the gun back on, Domino   
held her breath, listening to the conversation.

"I can't believe he's dead, Sam. I... I just can't. And... he was just lying there... and... blood... it's not supposed to happen to us! We're   
superheroes!"

"Stop it, Tabitha. Snap out of it right freaking now!"

Domino's eyes widened in surprise at the sadden hardness in Sam's voice. She had to fight off the temptation to sneak a peak inside the   
room, but even so she could positively imagine Tab's shocked look. Sam didn't pause though, "You start thinking you're invincible because   
you don't need a grenade to blow something up, you're gonna end up like Mr. Wisdom. That's what he's been trying to tell you.. tell us. The   
Dream doesn't work one way. If you wanna people to treat you as equal, do the same. Respect them. Fear them. We   
are not Gods! Jesus, Tab! You know this! If Doug's death taught us _anything_ it taught us this! Or Illyana!"

"Stoppit! Shut up, Sam. Just shut up! We were kids then.. of course... I mean... And no one even cared! Nobody even noticed that he's   
gone!" Suddenly, another raking sob broke through and the last thing Domino heard before Tabitha's words were drowned under the new   
weeping whisper-scream was, "I miss him, Sam. I miss him so much..."

"I know, Tab. I know. I do too."

Sliding softly away, Domino made her way to the kitchen. Coffee and time heal all wounds, after all. And while time was out of her control,   
coffee she could have waiting by the time Tabitha cried herself out.

***

The night is a strange time. Once it was the embodiment of Man's fear. The ultimate unknown, the omni-consuming darkness full of demons,   
Gods and spirits. To some the night still is that. The enemy. Holding a creeping kind of horror in its depths. Her high school teacher once   
called it atavistic, scoffing at primitive phobia carried through time from the cave-man who stared fearfully outside his lair and, hearing the   
sounds of the wide and scary world outside threw another log on the dying fire. Romany grinned and kicked a stray pebble, watching it sail a   
curved path off the graveled path off into the bushes. Personally she thought it was bullshit and she'd told   
the teacher so. She was thirteen then and she already knew only too well that only a moron is not careful of night and its denizens. Mr.   
Smythe disagreed and clinched the argument with a detention. She hated detention. Besides he was wrong. So she wasn't really being all   
that bad when she set a gremlin on him. Running up the steps back to the house, Romany smirked again, "Nicely rationalized if I do say so   
myself." Unhurriedly she made for the kitchen, pausing only slightly when she heard muted voices behind the door.

"Hey, lookee here, another insomniac. Join the club."

"Move over. Come on, move it, you ox." Shouldering Thom determinedly, and kicking when necessary, Romany squeezed herself between   
him and Mick, neatly taking Pete's space on a small bench.

The latter scowled at her but knowing from experience the effects -- or rather lack thereof -- it would have, turned the power of his scowl   
onto Thom, who vacated his spot hastily... only to chase Joakim from his. The latter unobtrusively stole Nick's chair. Nick signed and   
looked at the small gathering resentfully. The gathering unrepentantly looked back, each keeping a firm grip on their seats. Nick d'Arfoix,   
the owner of the mansion and the garden in which Romany had just taken her night stroll, sighed again and sunk to the floor, crossing his legs   
in a fluid motions, "Bastards."

In an almost synchronized motion the five people sitting around the small table strewn with food and paper flipped Nick the finger. Malchus   
chuckled softly from his place besides the stove, and added a pinch of salt into the merrily bubbling pot. "If I may be so forward, it might be   
for the best if you all took a little time to sleep tonight. The next several days promise to be very... exciting."

"Excitement is my middle name. Thomas Excitement Peregrine."

"Oh yeah? I thought it was Doofus."

"I have a suitably long name. Not like some abrasive Celtic females... who shall remain nameless of course."

"Of course."

"Very chivalrous of you there, Tommy."

"Uh-hah."

Malchus chuckled again, letting his question be buried under the banter as Thom ducked the suddenly airborne loaf of bread... He of course   
never even saw the thick manila envelope coming. Mick and Romany high-fived each other contentedly as Nick deftly exploited the   
opportunity and triumphantly reclaimed his seat at the table.

"Quit it! For Chrissakes, people!" Pete 'Looked' at Thom and the latter immediately realized the depth of his temerity in even thinking about   
displacing Wisdom from his chair. Not that the realization actually stopped him from picking Wisdom up and dumping him somewhat   
unceremoniously on the other side of the table.

"You, big lummox! Get the hell out of there!"

"Sha. I'm a big man, I need my rest. "

"I'll give you..."

"All right already." Getting up, Joakim kicked his stool to Pete, straddling the sink instead. "If we are quite done with musical chairs a la   
WWF, can we get back to business?"

Malchus considered the pale, usually silent man while absently cutting the garlic. Joakim was still uneasy with him... surprising considering   
that he was the first to put all the pieces together and he was very receptive to the notion that Malchus was exactly who he appeared to be.   
So were most of the others in this somewhat peculiar little group... although in his private opinion much of Michelle's -- *Mick's,* he   
corrected himself -- current pique came from the fact that she was the last to figure it out. Or rather that Thom figured it out before her.

He smiled wryly, remembering the discussion. At the time he half-feared that Thom might not survive his lecture... now, just six days later, he   
was already used to the perpetual war zone that was Thom and Mick's partnership.

He couldn't resist a sidelong glance at the pair who were currently utilizing the remnants of supper as ammunition and a violently protesting   
Pete as a human shield. Joakim caught the motion and winked at him, clearly amused. Malchus grinned back, appreciating the man's   
attempts to establish rapport with him, despite... everything.

Pitching his voice low, Joakim motioned toward the window, his smile giving way to his usual somber, smart-eyed mask. "Do you think he   
knows? The Blood Weaver?"

The darkness outside suddenly seemed to deepen and grow malevolent, and Malchus regretfully let the simple contentment of sitting in a   
room full of warmth and friendship slip away. "That his opposite number is on the same plane? Almost certainly. Who he is? Probably not.   
But..."

"What? But what?" Pete's narrow-eyed question seemed to cut through the clamor around him.

Malchus sighed, pulling on his earlobe uneasily. He was very tempted to go with the ever-popular, 'I am not sure you'd understand.' Alas   
judging by his previous attempt... * Well hell, if they can accept that the Wandering Jew is sitting in their kitchen making calabash - * He got   
up, wiping his hand on the apron, and starting his 'thinking pace' from the stove to the door, and back, "As I have told you the person we are   
looking for is an... incarnation.. an avatar would be a more suitable moniker, perhaps. The previous.. hmm, Spirit of Murder sounds so   
sophomoric and foppish, doesn't it? I've met her only once. A very... peculiar young lady... had this strange fascination with red leather..."

"Hey. Nothing wrong with a little leath... What? What are you looking at?"

"TMI."

"Yeah really, Rom."

"God, did NOT need to know that."

"Oh shut up, the lot of you. Malchus?"

"Umm, yes... Where was I? AH, that's right. As Peter and Romany already know the previous Murder was dispatched recently.   
Unfortunately her demise coincided with the death of an entity of an even greater power and that sparked off a chain of events unforeseen   
and unplanned for. You see these seeds, these parts of the late Ms. Rose Tattoo's essence are not simply shadows of her former glory but   
rather.. Hmm.." Malchus sighed in frustration, "You see every one of these 'drops' has the potential for becoming the next avatar of Murder."

"So? Understandably this is not wonderful but this has to happen if the machine is going to creak on. The Balance is the normal, right? You   
take the bad with the good..."

Malchus turned and gave Romany a very long look. "That is a very progressive point of view, Ms. Wisdom. It appears I underestimated the   
level of Learning you possess."

Romany grinned cheerfully. "Nope. Just the amount of Moorcock I swallowed as a kid." She motioned impatiently, "So, ok. If I am right,   
what's the catch?"

"The catch is that the spread was uneven. This particular drop - Marcus Tsung, wasn't it?"

"Yep. That's the guy that fit the profile you gave us."

"Thank you, Nicholas. As I was saying Mr. Tsung, for example, harbors great potential for becoming the avatar. But then again, so does   
Mr. Jason Wynn -- do not furrow your brow, Joakim, I'm afraid the name is several dimensions away from being familiar to you. But back   
to my original point. Both Mr. Wynn and Mr. Tsung have the capability to become the avatars. They are not mutually exclusive, you see.   
While they may attract and absorb the smaller 'drops,' these and a few other 'special' people spread across the Multiverse have the   
capability to reach their full potential as the .. ahem.. Spirit of Murder. Hardly a picture of balance, wouldn't you say?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute... are you saying, we basically have to thin the crop?"

"Umm... aptly put, Thom."

"Well, that's nice and all but since I don't have to worry about those other Manson wannabees, can we concentrate on our friendly   
neighborhood psychotic godlike entity?"

"Am I detecting a little touch of sarcasm there, Peter?"

"Just a bit, Joak. Toss me that towel, would you"

Mick raised her fork, pointing it accusingly at the fridge. "Pete's got a point though. What do we know about this Tsung? Nick?"

"What?"

"Share the wealth, o bwana."

"Again?! We've been over this already a hundred times! I know you are a bit slow on the uptake, Mickey, but come on..."

Thom shrugged off the murderous glare from his partner with a smirk, secure in the knowledge that he had a Very Important Paper in his   
hand and thus safe from bombardment for the moment.

"You'll get yours, Peregrine. Don't you worry."

"Promises, promises."

"Shut up. And you, d'Arfoix - let's have it again."

"Ok, fine" Sighing, Nick cracked his fingers and with unerring aim of supreme familiarity plucked a glossy photo from a pile on the table,   
"Here's the guy."

"He's kinda cute."

"Thank you for that fascinating update, Romany. Anyhow - here is what we know. He was born in Madripoor, presumably in 1959 -"

"Presumably?"

"Oh, come on Joakim - you know how their records are. With the right amount of cash in the right hands, you can be born in the 12th   
century and be a three headed hermaphrodite Buddha incarnation. Anyway, he got his training in the Triad. First became a Player during the   
Yakuza/Hand 'have it out' of the 77. By the early-80s he was a minor don. Then he had a misunderstanding with Matsushita clan. He almost   
won, too --but almost doesn't quite cut it. I am not sure how he managed to get out of Madripoor alive, but he did.   
Next --"

"Excuse me, Nicholas?"

"Hm?"

"Could you be so kind as to illuminate our friends as to the events that transpired in Madripoor after Mr. Tsung's departure?"

"Oh. Umm... sure. Tsung used to control a fair portion of Low-Town's dock workers. When Matsushita took it over they turned on the   
screws, since they were in it with the then Vizier Shakhra Anhaz. That's when they got the strike and the April Riots. Riots are bad for   
business so Matsushita were moved out by the other clans... I think Hong/Williamson are now running the docks, but I could be wrong. I   
only did a standard brush up on the area, strictly as related to our boy -- I could..."

"No, that's dandy." Pete waved Nick to continue as he nodded to Malchus shortly, "I get it."

"Get what?"

"Stay or go, this guy is leaving a blood trail after himself..."

"Ah. Well, I hate to rain on your cosmic forces parade, but in his line of work that's probably just a coincidence. Hell, if you want to take it   
that way - every two-bit gang banger is a Spirit of Murder. Ok, where was I?"

"He left Madripoor alive."

"Thank you, Joakim. So... uhm... oh yeah, he fell off the face of the Earth for several years. There are a couple of assassinations that might   
have been his work, judging by MO, but nothing definite. Until 19... 19... dammit, where... ah here it is - 1992. That's when he surfaced in   
Eastern Mongolia and whacked the local 'baron.' For the next five years he basically stayed there, built himself a little private kingdom. Hand   
tried a go at him and the government too. Twice, I believe. Anyway in '97 he up and disappeared. Left. Vamoosed. Just in time too, since   
the Mongols finally caved and asked the Russians for assistance against him."

Pete banged his leg against the footstool. "So he left. Just like that?"

"Yes indeed. Oh! He didn't go emptyhanded if that's what you mean. See, the Mongolia was just a front, this guy is diversified up the   
wazoo. He controls about 3 percent of Shaw Industries and has a foothold in Stark/Fujikawa. Not to mention the fact that he sponsors   
several terrorist groups. He's not up to bin Laden's level, as far as I can tell, yet. But he's getting there. Also he provides protection for the   
drug fields and trafficking in Asia. Or at least he started out that way - now he does a bit of growing and trading himself. And not only in   
Asia."

"Now? You mean as in currently?"

"Damn straight. See, this guy is smart. His little estate in Mongolia was just an easy target. Nice, plum, juicy - visible. So when he left, a lot of   
people assumed that he was done for."

"But.."

"Well a lot of those people are complaining to St. Peter that Tsung wasn't playing fair, if you get my drift. The guy is sharp. He took the   
doctrines of guerilla warfare, modern business management and well... crime syndicate running and applied them all to build himself a   
multi-celled, thriving organization with interests in narcotics, arms trade and terrorism. Heh, the guy is a freaking Keyser Soze."

"Great."

"Perfect."

"Wunderbar."

"Ok, hold up. This is way too pat. So ok, he beat off the Hand once. I can live with that. I doubt that the Hand was all that eager for a piece   
of Gobi anyway. The Mongolian government - I mean... come on. But to carve himself a syndicate like that and escape affiliation with any of   
the big dogs for a decade? Gimme a break."

"Thomas, m'boy... you sooo don't get it, do you? Tsung didn't escape affiliation, he escaped absorption. See, he's mingled with ALL - well,   
most of -- the major players at one time or another. Trained personnel, laundered money, supplied equipment or the dust. And he's been   
very careful who he takes on. Look at his operation in Asia. He showed that he could hold his own, but THEN he made nice with the Hand.   
And the majority of his interests are closer to theMiddle East. True, a lot of people have their fingers in that pot, but no-one has the whole   
fist -too volatile an environment. So nobody objected too much when Tsung came in. Get it?"

"Yeah, but still.. It just doesn't seem right..."

"Of course it doesn't, you poster orphan of the Globalization Age. You are used to corporations. The Hand, SHIELD, HYDRA, Disney.   
Tsung is... he's an empire builder. He wants to carve up his own pie, and he can. And he did."

"Okay, so he went mobile three years ago and he stayed that way?"

"Yep. He surfaced here and there periodically, but strictly legit stuff. Until about a month ago."

"That's when he started...?"

"Yeah. Basically... here." Nick picked up a neatly folded map. "See these red dots?"

"Yeah..."

"This is mostly supposition, based on my extreme dislike of coincidences."

"Coincidences, huh?" Romany shot her brother a sidelong look.

"Ah... yeah. Basically what we have is Tsung spotted in several cities, starting in Tangiers. He comes into town, sees the sites, eats at a good   
restaurant, gets lost for a couple of hours - disappears. No biggie, right? Right. Remarkably enough, his departure is usually followed by   
police reports of some strange disturbance. Often involving a woman, who also disappears shortly after. Except for three occasions these   
disturbances are usually very contained..."

"Elaboration?"

"All right.. But this is weird. The very first one, which is basically how I was able to latch on to this - somebody wiped out a whole team of freelancers. And not some   
amateurs either - Makedo's team. Black Air and the Russians used them a couple of times and had no complaints. What is interesting is that it appears that only   
one member of the team escaped alive."

"Lemme guess - a woman."

"Got it in one. Next one was just 10 days ago. Same story -- we get Tsung coming into town, blah-blah-blah, a shooting. Only there are no   
shots fired. And yet there is a dead body. Of a woman."

"So what's so weird? We know Tsung's got a mutant trait for those 'psionic bullets' or whatever, right?"

"Oh, sure. The thing of it is - the dead body disappeared."

"Big deal, so he wanted to cover his trail."

"Umm... no. See, there were witnesses. Namely a highly traumatized morgue intern whom the body bumped into while it was WALKING   
out of the building. This, umm... body, also appeared to be highly agitated with the design of the morgue robes."

"All right.. This IS interesting. Do we have an ID?"

"Actually yes, Joakim. We received a photo of the lady yesterday and Pete here was so good as to ID her for us."

"Reaaaally?"

"Yes indeed. Her name is... oh, wait. Pete, you want to do the honors?"

"Nah, you're doing fine."

"Why thank you. Okay... ah, so here we have a disappeared dead body and a disappeared Tsung, with no idea where they are surfacing   
next. Until this Thursday. Here - check this out."

Pete frowned, leafing through the offered folder. "Wait a minute... this is...this is... Are you telling me Jack finally planted a guy in NSA?!"

"Nope. Not for the lack of trying, mind you, but no. Not in any position to matter anyhow. We got this from the CIA. They didn't need it   
anymore and figured we'd owe them a favor. You know how they are always keeping tabs on each other? Well, they thought they got   
something juicy here - a group of 'cleaners' got dispatched to a secluded airstrip in Northern California. Presumably, and I repeat   
_presumably_ there was a bunch of dead bodies and a slightly exploded plane to pretty up."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You can see the satellite photos at the end of the folder there."

"There is nothing there..."

"Bizactly. They freaking 'cleaned' the entire airstrip off the face of the Earth. Now this completely freaked the analyst boys out. See, they   
have all this info, but they can't put it together since they don't know about Tsung and such. Partly why they practically let me run amok in   
the archives, it's driving them nuts. Pete, you sure I can't tell them? They'd give you a much better take on all of this, I can just do the basics."   
Pete grimaced slightly and shook his head. "Yeah, I'm sure. Besides, we already know everything we need to."

"Well... true, I suppose. At first there was no way to say that the thing at the airport was tied into Tsung or not. But then we spotted our   
dead lady. At Pete's funeral no less. We matched her with the picture from the morgue, but... it was none of the Company's business then,   
so we let her go. But she left with those mutant kids, and we were keeping tabs on them so, when Mr. Wisdom here resurrected himself and   
started making waves, we found her muy pronto."

"So now we just wait."

"For Tsung to take another shot at her."

"Bloody brilliant."

"Pete... Who is she?"

Malchus felt a stab of sympathy as Pete got up off his stool and approached a window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Domino, Rom.   
He's after Domino."

***

"Excuse the hell outta me?! Since when?!"

"This morning." Logan fastened the last belt around the duffel bag and stepped away, giving it one final critical review. It looked good   
enough not to fall off the bike.

"Logan!" If the girl's voice could get any louder she'd be liable to break the windows.

"Rogue."

"You can't just take off on a moment's notice! Where are you going?! Why?!!"

Sighing, Logan finally turned around and looked directly at the auburn-haired southerner who was steadily approaching the boiling point   
behind him. "All right. Here's how I see it. The Neo are done for now. We got the doc and the elf out. There is nothing else wrong. You   
don't need me here right now. She does."

"Logan..." Rogue's tone softened. "Logan, Jean and Nate have been searching for her for weeks. There is no sign of Kitty... Even if she is   
alive - how would you know where to start looking, even?"

"Here. One of my contacts gave me a heads up a couple of days ago."

Rogue curiously accepted the creased sheet of paper and inspected it. "This is an auction manifest... So wh.. Oh mah gawd!"

"Don't get yourself all excited. It might be nothin'. But I gotta check it out. No sense taking the whole team though. If it pans out I'll contact   
you."

"Logan, if a spacesuit like this is going on sale, if this is Kitty's spacesuit - you'll need some backup! And why didn't you tell me about this   
when you got it in the first place? You are not the only one worried about Kitty, you know!"

"I'll call you when I get there and later if there's any news."

"Logan. You can't do this alone. Logan! I'm ord..."

"Liebchen." Kurt materialized noiselessly behind Rogue, nodding to Logan companionably. "A word of advice - don't give an order you   
know won't beobeyed. It makes it all that easier to disobey the next one."

Rogue narrowed eyes at the blue-furred mutant, her hand absently tapping against her leg. Then she slowly transferred the not-quite-glare from Kurt   
to Logan. The latter was leaning against the motorcycle, nothing in the easy posture betraying whether he'd heard Kurt's whisper. Sighing disgustedly,   
Rogue threw her hands in the air. "Fine! You'll call me as soon as you get there. And emails. Regular emails, Logan! I remember Cyke's methods, so you even   
think about disappearing on me and his trick with the Blackbird will seem like a picnic! Got it?"

"Yes'm." Logan chuckled softly, sketching a mock salute. Then suddenly covering the distance between them and enveloping her into a bone-crushing   
bear-hug, he lifted her up... forcing a newly appointed leader of the X-Men to let out a highly undignified, girlish shriek. A shriek that almost   
completely masked the nearly imperceptible message breathed in her ear.

"What did he say?" Nightcrawler's exotically golden eyes glinted with curiosity. Hugging herself and watching the departing rider thoughtfully,   
Rogue let the pause stretch before finally answering. "Thanks. He said thanks."

Kurt nodded and, after squeezing her shoulder reassuringly, disappeared into the house. He never heard Rogue add with quiet unease "...and that there is   
a bad wind from the East."

***

"Check."

"Damn... All right, here."

"Check."

"Damn... Ha! Say goodbye to your pawn, young padawan."

"Check."

"Fuck! All right, all right - here."

"You sure?"

"I have three bloody pieces left, does it look like I know what I'm doing? No, I ain't bloody sure!"

"Want to take it back?"

"Aye! Here."

"Checkmate."

"DAMMIT!!"

The man by the window, silent until now, stretched languidly. "Give it up, Eddie. You suck at chess."

"True, true... 'course I haven't seen you do any better against 'im, Mikey me boyo."

"You're mixing up your accents again, you over-bleached meshugenah." Michael Thompson gave his fingers one last pop and got up, his hand casually   
pressing against the left side of his jacket - an innocent looking movement adjusting his gun-holster. The other two occupants of the spacious living   
room did not waste time in deciphering the meaning behind Michael's sudden activity.

"We moving out?" Eddie's voice betrayed reluctance at the prospect as his unconsciously glanced at the door leading to the second room.

"Should be. He's due at the University in about two hours. We ready?" Mike raised an eyebrow at Eddie, painstakingly ignoring the lamp-light in the   
adjoining room. It has burned all through the night, but all of these men had long ago admitted defeat in controlling their charge's work hours.

"I was born ready." The artificial blond winked at Mike suggestively and reached for his own sidearm.

Mike shook his head tiredly, firmly refusing to rise to the obvious bait and instead quirked an eyebrow at the second chess player, who was methodically   
putting away the pieces. "Nate?"

"Yeah. I'll go down, check the car one last time."

"All right. Oh and if Jack is sleeping in the car again - hit him."

"Willco." As he closed the door of the suite behind him, Nate could already hear Eddie begin yet another round of remarks aimed at provoking Mike.   
Grinning slightly he unhurriedly made his way to the elevator. As the neon numbers of the floor-counter began to light up, he shook his head, thinking   
about the sheer surreallism of his current position. He, Nathan Summers Dayspring Askani'son, was playing bodyguard to Robert Kelly. Senator Robert   
Kelly. Presidential hopeful Robert Kelly. He shook his head again, a chuckle of honest mirth escaping him. "Unbe-flonqing-lievible." The strange fact was   
that, as much as he tried - and he tried very hard -- he could not find fault with the reasoning that left him standing here in the corridor of the   
Marriott in the middle of Texas. Kelly stood for everything that he hated. For everything that Scott... that his father hated. He was making his bid   
for Presidency on the platform of hate and fear.

Kelly couldn't be allowed to die.

Not without unleashing the horrors of the riots and pogroms and lynch mobs.

The soft chime of the opening doors registered only tangentially on the youngish, silverhaired man lost in thought. Kelly had to be left alive. This   
conclusion alone grated on Cable's nerves. What was worse was that he was not sure he could accomplish the task. That... and he was actually starting   
to like the guy.

Nathan tsked in irritation. He was sure that any man proclaiming the ideals that permeated Kelly's campaign had to be a flaming bigot of Creed's   
caliber.. or simply a fanatic, judging by the Senator's past. Sharon Kelly looked nothing at all like Aliya, but for a split second, as he was reading   
the files on the Senator, her face superimposed itself on that of the Senator's late wife. Oh, yes. More than most, Dayspring could understand   
the reasons behind the Senator's drive for segregation of mutants. He'd convinced himself even before he took the job that the man could be easily   
labeled and classified. Put into a neat little box. It's been years since he underestimated human complexity so badly.

The lobby of the hotel was cooler, with air-conditioning working overtime to overcome the oppressive Austin heat. At this still relatively early hour,   
there were only a few guests down here, mostly clustered around the concierge desk. Signaling to the man... Luis, yes, that was his name...   
Cable approached the glass doors, his eyes sweeping the courtyard, looking for the familiar black limousine. He tsked again, his thought stubbornly   
refusing to let go of the previous train of thought. He never expected to think that Kelly was actually a... a good man. Honestly trying to do what he   
believed was right. Trying to serve his people as best he could.

He never expected to like him.

As often the case, the Senator attracted people of similar caliber to his team. It often struck Nathan as completely and utterly incongruous as he   
watched Melissa or John or Beckie get into fights on financing reform, or education or social security. They were good people. They wanted to change   
the world for the better. They believed they were going to.

They wanted to brand his people. They wanted to institute a policy that would see his people herded into the slums by unbending laws of economics   
Policies that would make mutants into second class citizens.

These were good people. They genuinely believed that mutants represented a threat to humanity. They didn't hate them. They spoke with disgust of the   
FOH. They didn't _wish_ mutants ill. They simply wanted to protect 'ordinary people'. Guarantee the 'average American' a right to cross the   
streets safely without fearing death from the fallout of the battle between new-age gods. They wanted peace, security...

"Lebensraum." The smart, sad face of Henry McCoy suddenly pushed its way to the surface of his mind as he remembered catching the scientist watching one   
of Kelly's speeches with a strange, bitter smile on his lips "He wants space. He and Lehsnherr are two sides of the same coin and they don't even   
realize it... Paving the road to hell, blinded by good intentions."

These were good people. Down to the very bottom of the ladder. With Mike, the 50-year old Jewish veteran of Vietnam, Panama and the Gulf, Eddie Carson   
- seemingly a perfect picture of the 'valley boy' but ruthlessly professional when it came to his job and Jack who... was finally here with the car.

"Yo, Nate!"

These are good people.

These are the Enemy.

Can I keep all of them alive if Mystique is as good as I think she is?

***

"Coffee!"

"Get your hands off the pot!"

"My cup, you insolent wench! I shall have your head for this."

"I will never understand you Americans and your fascination with that liquid manure you call coffee."

"Oh shut up, Joakim."

"Coffee. Coffee-coffee-coffee-coffee."

"Ladies. Gentlemen."

"And Mortimer to the rescue with a second tray! I love this man. Love 'im."

Thom, wrestling his cup back from Mick, inhaled the aroma and sighed deeply in complete contentment. "Mmm... How much time do we got, Joak?"

"Well, they made the meeting for 12, so... about an hour."

Cracking one eye open, Thom fixed Pete with it, "Are you sure they didn't find the bug?"

"More or less." Pete looked even grimmer than usual, the ashtray before him full of cigarettes smoked down to their roots. Putting another one against   
the surface of the table he ruffled through his jacket looking for a new pack. Romany frowned from her corner of the table but didn't comment.   
Throwing her a warning glance anyway, Pete turned back to patting down his suit. "They don't have the necessary equipment right now. Besides it seems   
like what they'd do... I told them to contact Technorats if they needed help."

"Are we sure Tsung will show up?" Nick squinted at Pete through the sights of the Glock, working the safety absently.

"More'n likely. He always tracked Domino successfully before... he's about due for another go."

"Of course he'll show up. Sure as mine name is Peregrine. And we'll be waiting. Speaking of which - Mick?"

"Ah tooak cawe offf it."

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Thom admonished absently, cracking his knuckles.

"Shuddap."

"All right, let's get on with this. Malchus? You ready?"

"Lead the way, Mr. Wisdom."

***

"Take it."

"Yeah, she's right, Jimmy. Can't hurt."

"Oh, fine. I'll take the stupid gun. I still say you are all paranoid."

"Just 'cos we are..."

"...doesn't mean they aren't out to get us. Yeah, I know."

Grumbling under his breath James Proudstar fastened the holster carefully under his armpit, presenting it to Domino's unforgiving scrutiny. The big   
Navajo spread his arms akimbo, "There. Want me to do a pirouette for ya? A little walk down the runway, maybe?"

"Hmm... not right now. But check with me again at about 8. I like my nubile young boy-toys closer to the evening. All right, that's good. Put your   
jacket on and button it."

"Yes, mother."

Domino slowly and somberly collected her fingers into a fist before lengthening the middle finger, "Get the hint?"

Sam snickered behind her as Jimmy raised his hands in surrender and buttoned the black jacket. "Haven't lost the charm, have you?"

"Like riding a bicycle. Only more rewarding. Nothing like the taste of crushed youthful rebellion."

Watching James exit the room, Sam grew serious, "I am not sure about the guns, Dom. I agree that we need backup, in case something goes wrong but   
with all the checkpoints on the streets.. If we get stopped - five armed people..."

"Yes, Sam. I know. You have a valid point.. I thought about it... but the checkpoints have been relaxing their inspections steadily. We are not going   
to go through any of the heavily patrolled areas. Basically the chances that we will need some extra 'punch' are far larger than the chances that   
we'll get stopped."

Sam shrugged, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. "All right... Well, unless some poor canine is being horribly molested somewhere in near vicinity, I do   
believe Jesse and Tab got the car ready. 's time.."

***

The alley was damp and reeked of stale urine. The shambles of splintered wooden crates, broken glass and pieces of newspaper littered the ground,   
crunching wetly as a careless misstep landed on them. The wind from the Bay reached even here, making what would have been a pleasant day into a   
slightly chilly one. Gripping the cigarette tightly in his teeth, Pete inhaled, stubbornly refusing to let the salty smell of the Pacific overcome   
the acrid bite of nicotine. He threw a casual glance downward, seemingly a meaningless gesture. Letting the smoke out in two blossoming streams through   
his nostrils he grunted in satisfaction. The coat-pockets were large enough to hide his hands. Wouldn't do for the team to see the Mission Control   
making nervous fists like a Catholic schoolgirl getting groped for the first time.

"They are coming." Nick's quiet warning was like a shot of Benzedrine, bringing everything into a sharp, brilliantly clear focus. Pete felt a   
familiar calmness settle over him as he watched the approaching five figures. He heard the slight ping of the com almost before it sounded.   
"Speak."

"Control, this is Oversight. Everything is clear." Romany's voice, distorted by the reception, rang mechanical and detached, as he could hear the   
computer keys being punched methodically in the background. He knew she resented being left behind to coordinate the communication, but he didn't   
have time to worry about it now. "What's the story on the goons?"

"Mick brought them in. She says they are not with the Company, just like you said. Local talent. They've used them a couple of times, but that's it."   
Suddenly, as if she saw Pete's narrowing eyes, Romany's voice grew irritated. "Don't think at me in that tone of voice! There was no way to   
find somebody completely unconnected on such short notice and you know it. These are random enough to be untraceable. Oversight out."

The alley grew darker still as the entryway suddenly became obstructed by what momentarily seemed like one big mass of black leather. Pete let his   
eyes wander lazily over four faces made nearly identical by black shades, shaved heads and square jaws. Even in her 'work clothes' Mick stood out like   
a sore thumb. Of course she, at the moment, was the only one smiling... most probably because she didn't like the looks Quartet was giving the new   
arrivals. "Hi, boys. Meet your new friends. Thom, cut off that testosterone flow or I'll do it for you. And you - introduce yourselves. Now."

The lead brick-face turned his head, slowly assessing the short figure next to him. Upon brief, but obviously deep reflections the gloved fingers moved   
into a signal.

"Call me Larry."

"I'm Moe."

"Name's Curly."

Pete could feel the heads turning to the leader, with reluctant, curious anticipation. The man waited until Pete finally gave into temptation and   
raised a sardonic eyebrow at him.

The cold watery-brown eyes met Pete's blue ones and the unsmiling lips moved.

"Fred."

It's nice when your nominal subordinates treat you with respect and trust.

***

"Are you sure this is the right place?"

"Yes, Tabitha."

"Well, where the hell are they?" Tab impatiently glared at the empty street in front of her. The rest of X-Force clustered around an empty park bench   
were killing time in their own ways. One of them being bets on how long it would be before Meltdown's questions wiould drive Domino into a killing   
rage.

"They'll be here."

"Whe... Guys." Tabitha's tone suddenly lost the annoying whining quality, prompting the rest of the team to look her way. "They're here."

"Bedlam." Sam scrutinized the seemingly ordinary bus that ground to a stop before them. Behind him X-Force drew closer together, Jesse Aaronson at his   
farthest right, looking intently at the vehicle. If his scan detected something amiss he would also be the first one to attack, playing merry hell   
with the bus' electrical systems through the power that earned him the codename of Bedlam. Turning slightly to Sam, he shook his head. "Just some   
low res sensor field."

Sam took an unhurried step forward, fighting the temptation to bring up his force-field. The seconds stretched as the bus-doors remained closed, until   
suddenly a yellow-haired head popped out, looking at him with irritated mismatched eyes. "Get the fuck in, already."

The interior of the bus seemed all the more fascinatingly weird when contrasted with the rather ordinary outward appearance.. It was also   
strangely spacious inside with enough room for both its crew and X-Force to move among the computers and strange looking tech that filled up the rest   
of the available space. As Domino, the last of the team entered, the doors clamped shut again. The sound seemed to calm the strange trio inside the   
vehicle. The girl who greeted them sighed in relief and suddenly shimmered like a disappearing mirage. Familiar with the effects of a deactivating   
image-inducer Sam simply waited, trying to keep the other two people in his field of vision. The rest of X-Force looked around them in frank curiosity.   
The machinery held their interest only for a brief moment before they turned their attention to the 'techno-anarchists' themselves. Their inspection was   
only partly reciprocated, by the man who seemed to be the leader of the group and the girl. Noticing her looking, the brown-haired man, with a nose   
showing all the evidence of being broken at some point, frowned at her, "Get us to the place, Charlie."

"Aye, aye sir. Whatever you say, Boss Abel. Yes, mastah." The now black-haired girl deftly maneuvered her way behind the wheel, winking at   
Jesse on her way. "Welcome aboard Traveler, hot stuff." Sam noted absently that her eyes retained the strange coloring, only now the right one was   
green and the left one was blue.

Abel gave the group one last long look before turning away, "Baker, are we clear?

The third member of the group, sitting farther to the end of the bus in a niche between computers and what looked to be a radar, was quite probably   
the tallest man Sam had ever seen. Easily taller than Proudstar he would probably tower even over Cable. Interestingly enough his height was the   
least remarkable thing about him. He was the only one among them who was obviously not baseline human. All of his impressive height, from hair to   
toes, was of a strange muddy redly-brownish color, only the darkly black-on-black eyes breaking the harmony. Grunting affirmatively in response   
to Abel's question, Baker threw a sidelong glance at X-Force, his gaze stopping abruptly when he reached Domino. Suddenly blue and white sparks   
began to run along his body, apparently not to either his or his friends'great discomfort. The sparks transformed him even farther, revealing what   
looked to be a skin-tight suit made of microchips, previously almost invisible in the shadowy cubicle, where Baker was half-hidden.

"What in the..."

Abel grinned humorously at Tab's reaction. "Wetware Dermal Circuitry. I am guessing that the lady is the one with the problem?"

"Yeah. Her name is Domino. I'm Cannonball." Gesturing with his hand, Sam introduced the rest as Abel led him and Domino deeper inside the bus.

"Bedlam." Jesse gave a mock salute, his eyes roaming across the gadgets around him.

"Warpath." Abel seemed suitably impressed by the massive Navajo. Baker might compete with Jimmy in the height department, but Sam would still put his   
money on Proudstar in the sheer intimidation contest.

"Meltdown."   
Tabitha was still staring at Baker in fascination. "Do it again! Do it again!"

Glaring at her, Baker crooked his finger at Domino. "Let's have a looksee."

***

"Control to all points, the mark is anchored. Repeat the mark is anchored - take your positions. Alpha - ceiling, Bravo - doors and corridor."

"Alpha check."

"Bravo check."

Pete lowered the binoculars, rolling the unlit cigarette between his lips. It was a sound guess that with all the patrols on the streets, Abel would   
prefer to park the Traveler somewhere quiet rather than taking the show on the road. Not that many suitable places close to the meeting place he'd   
requested, either... Still it was a guess. If he'd been wrong the whole setup would have gotten a lot chancier. He bit down on the fag -- not that   
it wasn't iffy as it was. Too many variables... too many things that could go wrong given half a chance. Which was one of the reasons he opted for   
supplementing the Quartet with additional firepower... the new arrivals would give him more room to maneuver if... no, _when_ things started to go   
wrong. Damn, what wouldn't he give for more time...

He'd scouted all the places out, of course, but the Stooges had zero familiarity with it except for the brief tour Mick gave them. Personally he   
felt confident that the placements he picked would work but, if somebody had decided to put him in him on the spot like this back in the old days, he'd   
have sent them for a long stroll off a short pier. "Oversight, talk to me."

"All clear. All the emissions I'm picking up from the mark are in line with specs given."

"Alpha to Control. In position."

"Bravo in position."

Pete moved the chair slightly, checking for the sun's position. Satisfied it wouldn't reflect of the binoculars he settled down. Rank Hath Its   
Privileges. Unlike the Stooges and the Quartet he was comfortably inside an abandoned apartment, overlooking the small square. Abandoned, looted and   
with its windows mostly absent it was still better than laying on the roof or running the ground detail. Only Rom in her van had it better. Probably   
still fuming. Ah, well. For all her brief stint with SHIELD she was never much as a field op, but she'd do better than most on the Oversight. Now   
then...

"Control to all points. Keep me updated. No music till I say so."

***

"The damn thing scanned me back!" Baker sounded more curious than anything else, Sam noted, as the techno-terrorist moved closer to take another look   
on the pulsating, greenish mass on Domino's back.

The albino mutant didn't move as Baker probed 'Junior' gingerly.

"So? Any idea what the hell it is?"

"Hell if I know..." Moving back to his computer Baker picked up the print-out, scratching his head. "Damndest thing I ever saw. It's alive. And   
it has para-abilities."

"Para-what? Para-human? Para-rat?" Sam noted with some concern that Domino's self-control was beginning to show cracks. *Lord, no. Not now. I can barely   
keep my team from losing it. I really don't need Domino going off. Please, Lord, not now. *

"Beats me. All I can tell you is that it's sentient. The sucker tried to get a read on me when I pinged 'im."   
Baker looked at the printout yet again, before turning back to the computer screen and then to Junior. "This is weird stuff, man."

"That's fucking great. That's just fucking..."

"Abel, we got incoming!"

"Charlie?"

"They locked on to us! I'm getting us ou..."

***

"Alpha to Control, I have the pigeon in sight. Please advise."

"Certainty, location."

"Looks a lot like the photo. North approach."

"Control to Alpha - hold it, wait for further instructions. Don't lose 'im. Bravo - get a fix, confirm. Oversight, the same."

"Roger that."

"Bravo to Control -We got it. It's the pigeon."

"Oversight to Control - I have him."

Pete held his breath, training his binoculars carefully... Nothing, nothing, nothin... There! "Control to all points. That's a confirmation. It's our   
boy. Who's got a clear shot?"

"Alpha 2 to Control - clear as day, say when."

"Bravo 1 - I have him.. I have him...Shit, lost it. Bravo 1 -no shot, I repeat I have no shot."

"Control to all - herd him until we have at least two beads on 'im. Bravo 2 and 4 cut the backdoor."

"Roger that."

"Wilco."

"Alpha 4 to Control, I have him."

"Alpha 2 to Control - still good."

"Bravo 1 - Got him."

"All right. Control to the lucky few, take the sh -"

"Oversight to Control we have company. Two Apaches, coming in low and fast, bearing west."

"Fuck! Control to all points - disregard last command. Repeat disregard the last command. Last thing we need is to put on a spectacle for the National   
Guard. Don't lose the pigeon."

Pete gave the quickly approaching shapes an evil eye and putting down the binoculars reached inside his coat for the lighter. Hearing the slight noise   
behind him he kicked the chair rolling to the opposite side, coming up with the gun on the intruder. "Dammit! What are you, on dope?! I could have   
fucking spluttered your brains all..."

"I know why he's after this woman." Malchus face was pasty white, the black eyes blazing from the gaunt face, "I know why Tsung is after her. Kragri is   
here. Kragri is with her. She has Kragri."

"Oversight to Control -- there is something wrong. I am registering missile lockons.. Pete, they are going to fire at them!"

***

White noise.

All he could hear was white noise.

Dimly he registered other noises. Someone was shouting his name over and over again. The girl with the yellow hair... what was her name... Tab!   
That's it.

"Sam! Wake the hell up! Sam!"

He shook his head, suddenly feeling the giant blanket lifting. They were under attack. He was lying behind a tree next to Tabitha, who was yelling at   
him, a plasma bomb forming between her hands. Less then two meters away, the remnants of the bus still burned and he realized that he had not the   
slightest idea how he'd gotten from there to here. The three prone bodies lying around the bus ...The short elation at the realization that they were   
techno-rats and not X-Force disappeared under a wave of shame. Shaking his head again, he held up his hand. "I'm up, Meltdown! Shut up for a second."

Jesse and James were returning fire from behind the park bench and Domino.. Domino.. was with them. "Shoot! She took off her gun for the X-ray."

"What?"

The noise of the helicopters' machine guns filled his ears and then suddenly faded a little as he brought up his shield. As he exploded from behind the   
tree he noted that Tabitha was rolling and then dashing to the flaming wreckage. He saw her checking one of the bodies for a pulse and then there   
was no more time as the shape of the leading Apache was suddenly looming in front of him.

***

"Jesse, what in the name of sweet merciful fuck are you doing?!"

"Shooting, ma'am!"

"Give me the frigging gun and bring that chopper down, Bedlam!"

Jesse looked at Domino blankly for a second, his hand still gripping the gun, aiming it at the sky where Sam was zigzagging in an intricate pattern   
between two helicopters. Then, suddenly, understanding flared and he grinned ruefully, tossing her the gun. "Let's do this right, then."

***

"Alpha to Control, the target is loose. Repeat target is loose."

"Bravo to Control, I have no visual on the primary."

"Oversight to Control, I lost him. Do you want to give fire support to X-Force?"

"Control to all points - Hold your fire. Repeat hold your fire! And try to reacquire the primary. The pigeon is the priority target."

Malchus moved somewhere in the corner of his vision and Pete jabbed a finger in his direction, silently but savagely, as he scanned the square trying to   
see through the thick oily smoke. Trying not to think about what a stray machine gun bullet would do upon getting through Sam's shield.

***

The force-field held. It held.

Sam fought the incongruous urge to let out an excited, adrenaline-filled whoop as he dove away. Down and to the right, hurriedly estimating the reach   
of the falling Apache . The fiery line drawn by the second helicopter whipped above him and then below. He rolled, knowing even as he did that he   
wouldn't be fast enough.

*Overshot and undershot, You know what comes next, Guthrie. Let's brace ourselves.*

As if to punctuate the thought the bullets hit the field in rapid succession. Just as it held had through ramming the tail of the first   
'copter, the field held, but for a split second Sam felt himself losing control and tumbling down into a downward drop. He wheeled himself into the   
spiral, hoping to get enough escape velocity for a climb but another hammering series of impacts threw his concentration, driving him back into a   
pattern that would see one Sam Guthrie kissing the pavement. Feeling his lips tighten, he forced himself into that calm, detached state Cable had   
opened to him years ago. His world narrowed suddenly to him and the ground coming up at him, the possibilities racing through his mind in lines and   
tangents, as if drawn in chalk on a black-board. The slight wind, the chopper's suddenly clumsy circles, the draft of the warm air from the   
burning bus - the data was coming to him in bite-sized chunks. Suddenly it was just there. The solution..

He just _knew _ it. Knew that if he held it till that point -- right here and then sharp right -- as he overshot that window with the dead flower...   
right here! Suddenly the ground was swimming away from him and the second Apache was screaming down into the suicidal dive. "Jesse!"

"Boss."

"Appreciate the assist, is all."

"No problem, m'man."

Domino's voice abruptly broke into the conversation, short gasps magnified by the radio, "I'm moving in to pick the debris and ask some questions.   
Warpath, cover me."

"On it."

Sam nodded unconsciously. "Check. Bedlam, get on it also. Tab, you ok?"

"Yeah. I think the techies are all alive. Abel is in a bad way though."

"I'm coming down."

***

"Alpha 2 to Control, I got him! To the north-east, shadow on the fence. He's going for the wreckage."

"Control to all - find him. Get a bead on him. Now!"

***

"Got a live one here." Domino kicked the pilot's hand, deftly catching the gun as the man clutched his fingers, moaning in pain.

"All right, you ugly son of a bitch. You tell me who sent you and maybe, just maybe..."

The pilot's face stiffened suddenly, a surprised expression entering his eyes. Domino clicked off safety and took a step back, suspicious of a trick.   
The kneeling man opened his mouth, looking at her with those very surprised eyes before lowering them to the growing red spot on his chest. As he hit   
the ground, falling heavily and awkwardly, Domino was already raising her gun to cover the new target. She might as well have been unarmed.

*Damn, he's fast. * She stopped herself from firing, seeing that Tsung already melted back in the shadows. She shouted a warning to X-force and   
backed up, gripping the gun tightly and scanning the surroundings. The pilot's sudden, silent death reminded her uncomfortably of Tangiers and the   
team dispatched in a matter of minutes by the same man. Suddenly she heard him coming. She distinctly heard him coming. From behind.

Sam heard Tab's gasp and saw Domino suddenly turning around, while dropping into a crouch . He saw the tall shape appearing at her right side. By the   
time he saw Domino fall he was already airborne.

The first blow came from her right, not from behind. She felt her arm go numb and then she lost her footing. The familiar, hateful face suddenly   
coalesced just feet from her. Smiling.

"Motherfucker. I'll see you dead first."

"Tsk, tsk. Such venom. I wonder what your friends see in you. They even give their lives for you. Like this young fool. No, stay down. Stay down and   
watch."

Domino gritted her teeth, stifling the scream of pain as Tsung's foot heel slammed down on her dead arm, and she felt her heart drop into her stomach   
as she saw the familiar shape cannonballing toward her.

Sam was going to get himself killed. What kind of a moronic stunt was he pulling? They didn't know the capabilities of these 'virtual bullets'!   
Feverishly building another bomb on the run, Tabitha raced after him, more feeling than seeing Bedlam and Jimmy doing the same.

It hurt. The shield held yet again but it did nothing about absorbing the shock. Dimly aware that his speed had fallen off by at least a quarter, Sam   
coughed, feeling warm wetness splatter his lip. *Damn things kick worse than a mule. I've gotta to slow down. No room to maneuver down here. He didn't   
expect me to get though the bullets tho'. Gotta slow down more. Gotta slow down. Aw hell... Too late. *

Domino saw Sam shudder as the bullets hit and struggled feebly, prompting Tsung to kick her absently. She gasped, feeling her rib give way and then   
Sam was above her and Tsung... was no longer there. One minute he was standing on her arm and the next he was stepping aside and moving with   
impossible speed. Absurdly her attention fixated on the fact that Tsung was barefoot as he ran UP THE FREAKING WALL! And then Sam was down.

It was ridiculous. In the course of the last 15 minutes his field had held while he crashed a top-of-the- line helicopter, it had deflected machine gun   
fire, it even held the 'virtual billets' whatever the heck they were. And than a guy blacks out for a second and the shield was gone. Ridiculous.   
Can't count on anything these days.

By the time he saw Tsung's kick driving Sam into the ground, Jesse was already 'feeling' for him. He saw Tabbie run by him but most of his   
attention was fastened on the waves and currents that were Tsung's brain. The man was 'slippery', it was as if there was a field of interference   
clouding him. Concentrating Bedlam forcibly made himself ignore that Tsung had Sam by the throat, suffocating him. Suddenly he grinned nastily, finding   
the 'hook.' "You are mine, punk!"

Suddenly, Sam could breathe. He could breathe! Oh yeah... he was also falling.

Domino saw Sam hit the ground awkwardly, gasping for air, as Warpath suddenly was there, his punch taking Tsung squarely in the face. She swore   
as she made herself crawl, the gun remaining tantalizingly out of her reach.

***

The tall, Asian man in a black trenchcoat smiled at him as he strengthened, ducking the second time. "Myyyy tuuuurn."

James Proudstar didn't reply to the mocking intonation, crouching slightly into a defensive position. As soon as he felt his punch connect, he realized   
that he was outmatched. He knew he was better than most in unarmed combat but this Tsung was on another level entirely. He took the punch at full   
force... almost, turning ever so slightly -- and yet that simple motion robbed the hit of most of its strength. Warpath swung again. A short vicious stab   
at Tsung's throat that was perfect, completely perfect... except it missed, hitting air, and then he felt something clamp on his neck and the world went   
black.

She missed! Tab swore, not believing her eyes. She frikking missed him! The bomb exploded harmlessly half a foot from Tsung's head. The man raised his   
head and smiled at her, giving Bedlam's neck one short chop. Dropping the lifeless body to the ground he blew her a kiss and bent down, coming up with   
Sam's throat in his hand. "Why, you smug cockroach! You fucking ignore me?!" She almost didn't feel the burning pain as she created another bomb, without   
waiting for her body to make good its depleted resources "Kiss this, you sonovabitch!"

As Tsung's head disappeared in a familiar explosion, all she could see was Sam's bleeding, battered face against the ground.

"Oh, come on. Come on.. Sam, don't you freaking die on me, Guthrie! Come on.. oh, God. I can't feel his pulse.. Oh, God..."

"Maybe... if you quit... trying to find it in my elbow...you'd have... better luck."   
Sam grinned weakly, wincing as he propped himself up against the wall. "Geez, Tab. I didn't know you cared."

Feeling the treacherous itching in her throat Tabitha scowled at the smiling face. "You big oaf. What in the hell were you doing jumping in front -."

"Tab, behind you!"

Sam felt something akin to nearly preternatural horror creeping down his neck as the melting, bleeding ruin of a face smiled at him from behind Tab's   
immobile form. There was no way Tsung could still be alive... his head had exploded for God's sake... He watched as the monster tore off a loose skin   
fragment hanging off what used to be his cheekbone and dropped it to the ground uncaringly. "You little morons. You really thought you could kill me?   
This little bitch really thought she could kill ME?!"

His force-field refused to come back on; as he reached inside himself looking for the familiar 'push,' all Sam could feel was emptiness. And   
Tsung's hands around Tab's throat were squeezing tighter and tighter... "Aaagh!"

"Fool." Tsung spat the word out almost contemptuously as he caught Sam's lunge in mid air with a kick to his midsection. He kicked him again in the   
face as Cannonball was wheezing on the ground, his air driven from his lungs by the first blow. "Idiots. Time for you todie."

Even gasping for air and half-blinded by the bleeding gash on his forehead, Sam recognized the hold on Tabitha's head. *One hand on the chin for   
leverage... the other above the temple... He's going to break her neck! He's gonna...*

He stumbled toward the laughing madman, his hands outstretched, fully realizing the futility of the attempt. The sudden weight in his arms broke   
his already precarious balance, knocking him to the ground. "You, murderer!"

"Guthrie..move away...Sam, you are in my fucking shot!"

As Domino's voice pierced through to his mind, Sam realized that Tabitha was still breathing. Gasping, he tried to right himself, to figure out what was   
happening -- and found himself face to face with Tsung.

"Sam, he's still alive... get the hell out of my shot!"

Sam detachedly registered Domino crawling to the side, the gun trembling faintly in her left hand. He looked at Tsung, who was rising up above him,   
seemingly not bothered by the wound in his right shoulder any more than he was by Tabitha's bomb. As he saw the hand reaching for his heart, the   
blackout was almost a blessing.

***

Pete grinned savagely, trailing the falling body as bullets tore into it. "Shrug this off, ya toerug." Not lowering the binoculars he motioned to   
Malchus to wait a moment, "Control to Oversight, check the pigeon. Bravo back her up."

"Roger that."

Giving the body, lying motionless, with its outstretched hand still reaching for Sam, one last glance, Pete finally lowered the binoculars, shrugging off   
the feeling of unease, and turned to Malchus. "All right, first of all -you pull this running in and screaming shit again, I WILL shoot you. Second,   
what the hell were you talking about?"

The man in front of him seemed to have calmed down a little, although his eyes still shone with something too much alike to fear for Pete's liking.   
"She has Kragri, Mr. Wisdom. Your friend has the end of the world with her."

Pete suddenly felt very, very tired as he dropped back into the chair, listening to Malchus only-superficially cool voice. He lighted up the   
cigarette, noting with disgust that it was his last, and wished he had something to drink. And that the nagging feeling at the base of his skull   
would go away.

***

"Are you sure he's dead this time?" Jesse kicked the prone carcass on his way to falling into a sitting position next to Domino. The latter winced,   
nodding thanks to Jimmy as he tied off the bandage. "Yeah, you got a point."

Romany sighed and stepped aside, fairly confident of what would happen next. As Domino methodically emptied the clip into Tsung's neck, she mused   
resignedly that Domino hadn't changed much.

"Happy now?"

"Ecstatic." Twitching her shoulder irritably, Domino tossed the empty gun on the ground. "Mind explaining me what the hell happened here?"

"She would. She will. After you wake up?"

Sam closed his eyes. "That's it. I knew it. Momma done warned me about being a superhero." Opening one eye he looked at Proudstar plaintively. "They   
finally hit me on the head one time too many, Jimmy. I'm seeing dead people."

Romany sighed in exasperation. "You know what, Pete?! Make up your damn mind. First you want it a big secret, then you come marching up here! Look   
at that poor kid, if his jaw was any lower he'd dislocate it. And what the hell do you mean after she wakes up?"

Domino nodded weakly, too tired to be surprised at Pete's sudden appearance and too busy fighting the urge to violently scratch her back, "Yeah. Run   
that by me again. "

Pete nodded, winking at Sam who was still muttering and shaking his head, "It's simple, Dom. You have a nasty thing somewhere on your person."

"And?"

"And it's about to wake up. Fred, trank her."

"What?!"

Watching Domino's body slump back to the ground, Sam buried his face in his hands. "This is all a dream. This is all a dream. This is all a dream."

"What the hell is going on here?" Tabitha squinted her eyes, trying to block out as much of the sunshine as possible from putting needles directly into   
her brain. Bedlam shrugged at her, his eyes closed. "Beats me. Apparently Sam has some serious issues. This is his dream, you see. Personally I blame   
lack of sex."

"Oh." Tabitha rubbed her temple, absently waving hello to Pete. "Oh. Hey, did we kill the bad guy? Is that Tsung-idiot I see bleeding on my shoes?"

"Yes and no. This is the bad guy." The massive black man with the rifle kicked the body, before turning back to shrug at Tabitha, "Only Pete here   
says it's not Tsung."

"Oh." Her headache was getting worse, Tabitha noted, watching men under Pete's sister's direction pick up bodies and disappear with them somewhere.   
"Hey, Sam?'

"Yeah?"

"When you wake up, we're going to have to work on those issues of yours."

***

Eileen was having a great day. And the best part of it was - it was almost over. In just one hour and seventeen minutes she could finally go home. Go   
home have something to eat -- and then she grinned, imagining Kevin's reaction when he'd see her in that dress she got last week. She giggled   
under her breath, waving to the customer to hurry up, "Where to, sir?"

"One way to Moscow, please."

"Name?"

"Logan."

"That'll be $722, sir."

"There you go, darlin'. "

*****

To Be Continued...   
  



	4. The Moscow Connection

Disclaimer: Most of recognizable characters belong to Marvel. No profit is being made. As always – many thanks go to my betareader.   
Feedback and flames are welcome.  
  
*****  
  
"Is this person really necessary?" The speaker threw a sullen glance at the hulking figure of the guard standing silently behind his host.  
  
"Yes. May I offer you a cup of tea? Real Indian tea, excellent blend."  
  
"Umm... no... I mean, yes. Thank you."  
  
"Sugar?"  
  
"No. Thank you."  
  
"Well, you won't mind if I take some, I'm sure. Have a bit of a sweet tooth."  
  
"Of course."  
  
The silence descended on the small room, as the host relaxed in his plush armchair, sipping the steaming tea from a brightly colored cup. He was a fiftyish man in a sensible suit and equally sensible glasses; the brown hair with its dabs of silver around the temples gave him a distinguished air.  
  
The large shadow behind him was that of his bodyguard. A young man with white hair was standing lightly, just to the side of the open window, his eyes carefully not looking directly at the two other men, but nevertheless keenly aware of every sound and movement. The bodyguard had many names. He entered the employ of the bespectacled man under his real name – Nathan, deciding not to bother his employer with such trivialities such as the fact his nom de guerre was Cable and he was considered a highly dangerous mutant terrorist by at least 31 countries.   
  
He sighed mentally, throwing a sidelong look at his charge, who was still calmly drinking his tea. Looking at him, one could hardly believe that Robert Kelly was a presidential candidate -- a presidential candidate fully aware of at least three separate groups trying to assassinate him. Well, three that they were sure of, at least. It was entirely possible that the portly, perspiring man in the other chair was responsible for another such plan, of which they had only circumstantial evidence. But it was doubtful in Cable's private opinion. Kelly was drowning in the polls. Neither Platt Roushe nor the people he represented had any reason to liquidate him that messily. Of course, one never knew.  
  
As if hearing Cable's thoughts, Roushe shifted in his chair, wiping his face with a handkerchief. Nathan sighed quietly. It appeared that the shadow chief of staff for Paul Jenkins, the Republican Party nominee, was in no hurry to get to the point. A pity since there was nothing more in the world Cable wanted at this moment than strip off his shirt and change the bandage on his side. Well, that and a few hours of meditation. Gaunt did a fine job of working him over. Touching the aching side discreetly, Cable resisted the desire to probe Roushe. He was fairly confident that the scanners in the lobby would have noted something as electronically sophisticated as psi-netting, but on the other hand this was hardly a life or death situation that required him to risk tipping his hand. He frowned again, reminding himself for yet another time to look into the devices. The psi-nets surfaced several years ago, quickly finding a secure if a severely limited niche in the market despite the hideous costs and fragility. So far they were the only inorganic, portable way to detect someone performing a telepathic probe on you. Useful little toys.  
  
As Roushe shifted again and made some idle, stalling comment Cable used the time to run a brief internal-scan. Again. He knew he was being paranoid and yet he couldn't help himself. The last few months were... exciting. Too exciting by half for his taste, he thought sourly, wincing a little as his mind made contact with the familiar cold presence at his core. No... it seemed the technorganic virus was still dormant, or at least as dormant as it ever was. Relief failed to come, just as it had failed to materialize after the last time Nathan made this analysis, and the time that his conclusions were confirmed by Blaquesmith.. and Rachel... and Jean... and Beast. Excitement was vastly overrated, he thought again. As was the time travel.  
  
Battle with the Undying entities, trips to potential futures, the duel with Gaunt, the warlord who imprisoned Rachel to entice him into combat – he barely had time to heal before another conflict would present itself. And then back home he was. With most of the people unaware that he was gone for more than a day and now had a whole new interesting set of scars developing to add to his collection. Most people including everyone in this building.  
  
Gaunt was the last straw, he supposed. Playing with his mind to convince him that the virus was out of control, barely months after that indeed took place, had an unsettling effect. It should pass with time, or so people kept telling him. Stop worrying. Just an aftereffect, there are no 'vibrations' coming from the virus. Riiight. Either the TO was mutating, or he was going nuts. Why worry?  
  
Roushe was saying something again. Bright Lady, but that man irritated him. On other hand it was surprising how much men like Roushe reminded him of the politics back home, in the future. Every epoch has its own dirtbags. Somehow that thought cheered him up, restoring his faith in the universe. He suppressed a grin at the image of Roushe in the Assembly, or holding his own in the corridors of power of New Cannan. The humor fled as he glanced at the man. * He would, too. *   
  
"Yes, Senator, I agree it is rather warm. Should we discuss the amazing Redskins comeback next, or perhaps you could get to the point?"  
  
*Well, here we go. Come on, Nate, back to reality. ... and if you could stop talking to yourself, that'd be great too. Any time now.*  
  
Roushe shifted again and put down the untouched cup of tea. "Yes, Mr. Kelly.. perhaps that would be for the best."  
  
"Senator Kelly."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"I hold the position of US Senator, as do you Senator Roushe. And I suspect this is not a social call. So I suggest we keep this within the bounds of protocol."  
  
Cable grinned mentally, still a picture of impassivity outwards. * Why how very petty, Senator Kelly. Nicely set tone for the rest of the meeting, too. To listen to you one might actually believe you had any bargaining chips. *  
  
Roushe's lips curled as if he had bitten into a piece of a rotten meat, "Of course... Senator Kelly. I apologize."  
  
"Think nothing of it, my dear fellow. Now, how may I be of assistance to you?"  
  
Platt Roushe leaned forward, the wet spots under the arm-pits of an expensive suit becoming visible for a moment. "Actually, Senator Kelly it is I... my associates and I who may be of help to you. I am simply a messenger for a group of very influential people, you see."  
  
*Well Golly Gee as Drake would put it, I am so flonqing surprised a feather would knock me of my feet. What's next? The Elvis is really dead? *  
  
"You don't say. And how what do these powerful people want to help me, exactly?"  
  
Roushe leaned out still farther, making Cable worry briefly that the Republican was going to fall out of his chair. "I am here to offer you the White House."  
  
*...pipe and bloody hellfire, I love this democracy thing! *  
  
***  
"Heehee! Take that you foul American capitalist pig! Feel the power of the Bedlam Triple Decker Super Sonic Demolition Juggernaut High Kick Hurricane!"  
  
"You have much to learn, grasshoppah... although I must say I am impressed with your lung capacity, to say all that in one sentence. Now watch this."   
  
"Git 'im, Thom." Mick jumped up excitedly and encouragingly punched Peregrine in the shoulder. The latter grunted reproachfully. "Quiet in the cheap seats." Off in the corner Joakim looked up from his book momentarily to ruefully shake his head. "You should be ashamed, Thomas. Robbing the children like that."  
  
"C'mon, Jess, kick his butt!" Bedlam sighed and rolled his eyes, as Thom winked at him understandingly. Wisely deciding to ignore Tabitha altogether, Jesse concentrated on crushing the lowly upstart who dared to challenge his Mastery. "Lowly upstart! You dare to challenge my Mastery?!"  
  
Nick snickered, coming out from the kitchen with a pile of sandwiches carefully balanced on a wobbling trey, "He dares, he does. Always with the daring Thom is. He's unpleasant that way. Yo, Sam – tuna or peanut butter?"  
  
"Ummm... Peanut butter." Grabbing a pair of sandwiches Guthrie passed one to Joakim, "And I think you're underestimating Jesse. Gravely so. And that shall be your undoing, O Pale and Gravely Underestimating One. For he is the master of..."   
  
"Kiiia! Flawless Victory."  
  
"Huh? Wait… What just happened here? Waitasec…"  
  
Thom looked at Bedlam, somberly making a small bow. "You have fought bravely, young... sucka!" Rubbing two fingers under Jesse's chin, Peregrine continued in a high, nasal voice, "Gimme. Gimee, gimme, gimme! Show me zeee money!"  
  
Bedlam was staring fixedly at the TV screen in the middle of which a bright red sign was still flashing cheerily, proclaiming him a loser. "I don't believe this. I don't... I don't lose in 'Bloody Slaughter!' I never lose! Especially – flawless! I wanna rematch! Right here, right now!"  
  
"Saaay… double or nothin'?"  
  
"Bring it on! Umm... Jimmy? Spot me a fiver? What? Where are you going?! I'm good for it!"  
  
The loud shot from the other side of the closed door, swiftly decreased the volume of the conversation in the main room, for a short while at least.. Romany and Malchus had been closeted in the small study for days, periodically emerging only to grab a pot of coffee and yell for quiet – which was mostly an exercise in futility with the amount of people currently camping out in the X-Force apartment. Then, the last time she surfaced, Romany meaningfully took a gun with back with her. Everybody got the hint. At the moment everybody was also hoping that neighbors wouldn't call the cops on them again. Everyone except for Pete, that is. Because Pete was a calm, unflappable sort of a leader. And he helped to soundproof the apartment.  
  
Skirting the crowd around the game-console, Wisdom pushed the kitchen door shut behind himself. Sighing he leaned against the wall for a second and closed his eyes. He stood there for several seconds before swearing quietly, and going to bend over the sink.  
  
"You ok?"  
  
Pete grunted, splashing some cold water on his face before turning the valve off and looking back over his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm dandy."  
  
"I can tell." Domino coolly appraised the familiar, slightly disheveled figure as Pete dried his face with a towel. Throwing the wet paper ball in the sink, Wisdom glared at her. "Wot?"  
  
"You want me to tell you?" Domino folded her arms, matching the glare. "Do you really?"  
  
"Not awfully much, no. But you will anyway. You people always do."  
  
Domino's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I will let that go, Wisdom. Just this once."  
  
"You're all heart." Pete hooked one of the stools with his foot and straddled it, grabbing a bagel with one hand. "So enlighten me. What the hell crawled up your arse and sicced you on me this particular day?"  
  
"Your completely fucked up attitude for one. Mind telling me what the hell is your problem?"  
  
Pete snorted and reached over to the jacket lying in a crumpled heap on the kitchen table. After a few seconds of digging he produced a small flat flask and unscrewed it with one quick motion.  
  
"Jesus, Pete. It's not even noon yet."  
  
"It is somewhere. And I distinctly remember not marrying you so butt the fuck out, Dom."  
  
"No, I don't think so. See... I could really give a crap about whatever is bugging you. But. You took responsibility for those kids out there, when you waltzed in and took over. I don't care if you're dead, alive or marinating in your own piss – get the hell off it!"  
  
"What are you ranting about, you crazy bitch?"  
  
"Sam. And Tab. And even Jimmy. Hell, if you'd been half-conscious the last couple of days you might have noticed that they haven't said more than 5 sentences to you each day."  
  
Pete took a long gulp from the flagon, shuddering slightly as the liquid seared his throat. "I noticed."  
  
"And?!"  
  
"And what? What the hell do you want me to do? Go play mommy? So I'm only mostly dead. How many ways can I tell it? They'll get over it eventually. Hell, they're second generation X-Men, this is an accepted fact of life to them."  
  
Domino started angrily and then paused just as suddenly, giving Pete a humorless grin. "All right...Very nice. Very, very nice. Almost got me. So why are you trying to tick me off, Wisdom?"  
  
Pete took another draught, squinting as the sunlight suddenly flooded the small room. Wordlessly he wiped the flask with his sleeve and offered it to Domino. The latter shook her head in rejection, still watching him with an almost predatory focus. Pete shrugged indifferently and made the whiskey disappear.  
  
Rubbing his face he sighed, his voice suddenly tired. "You know what's going on with them, Dom, just as well as I do. Those three got screwed like few do, even in our business. Little soldiers, my arse. I don't care what you say, picking up a bunch of 14 -year olds and starting to make a fucking SWAT team out of them, only because they can fly... what did Xavier think, they were going to grow up nice, ordinary, well-adjusted members of society? Riiight. Because, Christ knows, the first batch of X-Men are a picture of stability. And then.. hell, Dom, they got abandoned by every father figure they ever had. Chuckie The Billiard Head, Magneto, your mattress buddy – all bailed on 'em. And in Jimmy and Tab's case... you know."  
  
Pete raised his head, looking at Domino with red rimmed, insomniac's eyes. She was still standing, leaning against the door, watching him silently. Leaving his seat Pete turned his back to her and, clasping his hands behind his back, stopped in front of the window, watching the small figures of children dart across the road in the midst of a soccer game. "And then there is Sam. I don't know how that bald geek picked him out for a leader at just 16 but damn... That boy's got the best head for small unit tactics I've seen in a long time. But fuck does he get attached easily. I read up on them all of course but... I didn't think it would be that bad. Guthrie has an innate need to be a part of the family, not simply a military unit. That's good to an extent. Unless the team takes casualties at rate X-Force does. Or goes through major line-up changes as often. The boy decided to grow himself a shell. About time."  
  
Turning around, Pete fixed Domino with an irritated glare, "So fuck off. You'd not want to get all huggy in their place either, knowing I'm gonna be in the market for a stylish new coffin in a month or so."  
  
"Well, that's nice. Thanks for the free trip to the Wisdom World. Now mind actually answering my question?"  
  
"What the hell do you want? I did!"  
  
"Well you certainly talked a lot. Rather refreshing really -- when Nate tries to change the topic he goes all withdrawn and moody. I'm assuming you're already past that stage?"  
  
"Oh, for crap's sake..."  
  
"Good. 'cos you know you've got squat on Logan. Last time he decided to get all secretive I had to track him clear across Yukon."  
  
"Why don't you go and develop another abnormal growth or something, huh, Dom.? This Den Mother routine is getting old fast."  
  
Domino's eyes narrowed dangerously and she moved suddenly, covering the short distance between her and Wisdom in two strides.  
  
"You must have me confused with Kitty.. No, wait... Oh that's right! She left you too! Hmm... I wonder why? Must be your sunny personality. But on the other hand – I don't give a good goddamn! Listen to me very carefully, Pete. These are my kids out there. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna let them get killed because you decided to play at being angst-boy. So either you go and straighten this mess up, or I will! But you better believe I'm not about to let you fuck with their concentration while Tsung is out there."   
  
Pete raised an eyebrow sardonically at the finger that was only inches away from his eyeball.  
  
"There is nothing more dangerous that a first-year psych student, you know that, Dom? What, did you take a course in college? I'm all broken up that you don't care about me and I will immediately seek redemption by sharing my innermost feelings with you. Riiiight.... Go away."  
  
"Fine! Play at being a fucking victim." Wheeling around Dom stalked toward the door, snarling disgustedly. She didn't see as Pete's gaze grew heavy and absent, looking unseeingly at his hands. Neither did she see as his lips quirked suddenly into a frustrated grimace.  
  
"I'm tired, Dom."   
  
The sudden, quiet phrase stopped Domino dead in her tracks with her fingers on the door-handle. Slowly she turned around, staring and Pete almost unbelievingly "...what?"  
  
"I am tired. Always tired, lately. Hard to keep focused. And it hurts like a blighter..."  
  
"What does?"  
  
"Everything. Headaches especially. And every time I try to make the hot-knives it's sending me into a fookin' coma." Pete sighed, absently rubbing his right hand. "I don't know what that crazy, pasty-faced hag did to me back in Otherside but I am betting this is all because I got here earlier than planned. And then this whole fiasco..."  
  
"Have you told Romany? Or Malchus?"  
  
"No. And you won't either. She's liable to do some hocus-pocus again, and I ain't too sure she can take another so soon after. I'll make do... Hell they as much as told me, nothing but Tsung or his kaput can take me out."  
  
"So that's what's been eating you."  
  
"No." Pete swore softly and once again abandoned his perch to pace agitatedly across the small room. "I got taken like a fucking amateur! By a decoy! That bastard got me with the trick that a ten-year-old should have seen coming! And now he probably knows everything! Seen everyone. Complete with colorful illustrations. Fuck! Dammit! Just... argh!"  
  
The sound of children's laughter carried faintly but quite clearly from the street, as Pete ran out of air and curses. The laughter was cut off briefly by a car horn and an irritated voice, yelling at someone. Soon enough though, the unmistakable noise of kids' playing resumed. Pete paused for a second, to look out the window at the gaggle of kids yelling at each other over the soccer ball. He sniffed, muttering something under his breath and then turned frowning as a strange sound from the vicinity of the door drew his attention back to Domino. As he took in the sight of her, his nostrils flared angrily, "What's so freaking funny?"  
  
The pale mercenary was still leaning against the door-frame, her right hand grasping her left side, the lips parted in silent laughter. As she saw Pete's irritated expression, she gasped audibly and let out a loud giggle, sliding to the floor and waving her hand helplessly.  
  
"What?!"  
  
Domino gasped, at Pete's question, absently wiping the tears streaming down her face, with the back of her hand. "You... You... come back...from the... dead... and you are freaked... 'cos.. Oh, my God.. Oh, this is good... 'cos you got... played! Oh Lord... Oh, God, you English are sore losers! Oh.. I can't.. I can't breathe... "  
  
Pete frowned at the pale woman, the corners of his mouth quirking with reluctant beginnings of a smile. "Shut up."  
  
"I... mean... Oh.. Jeez, Pete... Hahahah!!"  
  
The door to the kitchen suddenly flew open and Tabitha stormed in, her hand glowing with the bio-plasma being gathered, Proudstar's worried face looking over her shoulder.   
That was enough to set off Domino into fresh gales of laughter, with Pete close behind. Meltdown uncertainly took in the sight of the pair and, shaking her head, let the plasma dissipate. Rolling her eyes disgustedly, she marched back out the door. "Old people! Jeez!"  
  
***  
  
Halfway around the world another meeting was taking place in a small room, deep in the bowels of the once very imposing building. The room was bare and sparsely furnished. The cracked plaster and dull shade of the wall paint contributed to the overall impression of decline and deterioration. The trails on the walls, where the paint is lighter, and on the floor where the dust is less, hinted to observant eyes that cabinets and paintings... or perhaps portraits, had been removed.  
  
The blinds were closed tightly and the solitary source of light, an old-fashioned table-lamp, threw a protective circle over the small portion of the room around the desk.. By accident or by design two people in the room were both outside of that circle. The light sparkled as it hit the glassy surface of the liquid in a half-empty, open bottle standing in the middle of the table. The floor creaked as one of the people empties the small glass and leaned forward in the chair to slam it on the desk, by the bottle, "Arh. Strong stuff."  
  
"Rat poison. Kills your liver."  
  
"Just so."  
  
The lighted part of the wall came alive for a moment as the second man shifts in his chair, sending his shadow into a wild dance for a split second.  
  
"Another?"  
  
"No. Thanks."  
  
"Well then... Perhaps to business then, Simyeon?"  
  
"Yes, Indeed, perhaps we should."   
  
The pause stretched until one of the men grunts and cracks his knuckles. "I've asked for this meeting, Alexei, because I am in need of assistance."  
  
The man behind the desk remained motionless save for a short hand motion, inviting the other to continue. Accidentally his hand brushes by the lamp, upsetting it and spilling the light on the two conversationalists as it flickers back and forth in an uneven arcs. It reveals the two men, facing each other across the simple black desk.   
  
One was dressed in a pair of trousers and a sweater. His head was shaven, making his face seem longer and more sinister as it is framed by a blue-black beard, the light brown eyes half-hidden behind bushy brows. The sweater was loose but even so the man gave off an impression of bearish health and strength. Only the lines around his eyes and the eyes themselves betrayed his age. While he might look like a man of 50, it took Simyeon Borisovitch Kurasov almost 66 years to become the Tsar of the Moscow underworld.  
  
The man across him was smaller in stature, clothed in simple pants and shirt. Unlike Kurasov he looked worn, with some gray among the shortly cut hair and the eye-patch covering his right eye deepened the impression of hardness emanating from him.   
  
Grabbing the lamp Kurasov steadied it and sunk back into his chair. "As I said, I came to ask your help."  
  
"You came to ask my help before, Simyon. I gave you my answer then."  
  
"Yes. I remember. Still, I believe this time things are different. Our interests coincide and your precious sense of duty will not be compromised. Besides... you owe me, Alesha."  
  
"So, you finally decided to call in that marker... Took you long enough."  
  
"Magadan. Yes." Kurasov narrowed his eyes slightly, peering through the shadows. "So, Colonel.... What will it be?"  
  
The darkens seems to deepen and suddenly Colonel Alexei Mikhailovitch Vazhin - isn't. Suddenly he's again the green lieutenant traded in as a pawn in one of the countless Kremlin intrigues.   
  
Magadan. Suddenly he's back there.  
  
Suddenly he's back in the camp and Igor Tragov is coming at him with the home-made cutter. The guard is looking the other way. Tragov's dogs are holding his arms behind him and the cold Siberian wind is tearing at his face...   
  
Magadan..  
  
He's back there hanging limply, feeling the warm, stench of Tragov's breath on his face. He's there as the hulking figure appears from the snow, felling Tragov with one blow and sending the flunkies running with one contemptuous glare from behind the bushy coal-black brows.   
  
He's there, only half-conscious as his savior raises him off the ground to his shoulders and brushes past the guard toward the compound. "Fucking politicals. More trouble than you're worth. Shoulda let you get gutted. Woulda too. Your luck it gave me the chance to fuck that punk Tragov over. Hey? Political? You alive? Come on... we'll get you inside, some tea... gonna be fine. Just fine."  
  
Magadan.  
  
Colonel Alexei Vazin blinked the memories of more than thirty years away and reached for the bottle. "Talk."  
  
***  
Luckily he managed to get a taxi right away. Logan did not fancy the prospect of employing public transportation even with his meager luggage. On this warm July morning the buses and the trolley cars would be packed as everyone would be trying to get to work or the markets. People piled in wall to wall with barely a place to stand, the stink of sweat and ripe food-produce and of course the inevitable temper tantrums.  
  
Luckily he managed to get a taxi right away. Unluckily the driver appeared to be atypical of the men Logan remembered from his last trip. He wanted to talk. A lot. After the man, Piotr, produced pictures of his children, Logan resigned himself to the chatter and closed his eyes, going over the plan of action. The ride from Sheremetievo airport to the hotel was long enough for that. Acting on rather sparse amount of information the plan was somewhat simple. Make contact with Armen and go from there. As he registered his thoughts wandering again as to what the appearance of Kitty's spacesuit on the Russian black-market could mean, Logan grimaced and opened his eyes, looking out the window, while the driver droned on, apparently quite content with hearing his own voice.  
  
It didn't take long for the changes to become apparent. He expected as much, it'd been almost six years since he was last in Russia. He followed the situation here as best he could and knew that things changed. He never realized to what extent. Gone was the monopoly of Volgas and Zhigulis, that used to be the mainstay of a meager but existing private automobile market. Now they sometimes seemed to be almost lost amongst the traffic consisting of Volvos and Fords. With no few BMWs. Gone were the dreary lines next to the stores, weaving around the blocks. Several buildings he remembered all too well seemed to be repainted, the familiar red flag gone, exchanged for the tri-color of the old empire and a new Russia.   
  
But mostly what caught his attention was the feeling in the wind. Nothing spectacular, simply the... impression. The people seemed happier, somehow. Not depressed resignation to whatever else might befall them, but actually optimistic. The sounds of laughter, the couples strolling by... He snorted uncertainly and leaned back in the seat. As the car turned inside the courtyard of a hotel he reached for the door handle, pausing slightly as the great painting on the side of a tall building next to the inn caught his eyes. The new President, smiling benevolently down from the height of 20-stories, the familiar pale, watery eyes and a hand raised in greeting. "The more things change..."  
  
The price for the room was just shy of high way robbery, apparently another tradition that hadn't changed. Since time immemorial the Moscovites looked on foreigners as a prime mark just begging to be fleeced. If he had time, Logan would spend it finding a room outside the city in a private house – the food would be better, the people friendlier and his wallet thicker. But time... time was one thing he didn't have. Every day meant the trail growing colder. So instead he settled for putting the fear of God into the concierge to at least insure the best possible suite for the money. Logan opened the door and gave it a cursory inspection. The spacious well lit main room overlooking the Tverskaya street flowed smoothly into a small bedroom, almost completely filled up by the bed and two small cabinets. Logan tsked as he motioned to the bellboy to put his bag in the sofa and tipped him. "Not bad. All right, where is the damn phone?"  
  
"There is one in the bedroom, sir."  
  
"Grand. All right, here is another twenty, if someone comes looking for me or asking about me, I want to know about it pronto, got it?"  
  
"Yes, sir! Any other way I can be of assistance – simply ask for Gleb."  
  
"I'll keep it in mind. Your English isn't half bad, by the way, kid."  
  
"My complements on your Russian as well, sir."  
  
"You're a good liar. All right, scram."  
  
***  
Hearing a sharp rap on the counter, Pete raised an inquiring eyebrow at the familiar, blonde head in the door. Tabitha scowled in reply, looking suspiciously at him and Domino. "If you two are quite finished with memory trip down senility lane...."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Romany is out. Says they've got something... Ey! Do not be running over the Tab! Animals."  
  
Still grumbling a little Tabitha followed the pair into the living room. As she entered she shivered suddenly and stopped by the door, hugging herself. The blue eyes were pensive and troubled as she looked over the gathering. She shivered again, feeling irritation welling up in the pit of her stomach. The day was sunny, the air-conditioner was barely functional, Tsung -- or whoever it was that wore his face and tried to tear her head off – was safely dead. She was not cold. She had no reason to be scared.  
  
As if laughing at her the shiver once again ran its course up her spine, raising her hackles. Meltdown bit her lip slightly and stubbornly forced her muscles to relax. *Nerves. Maybe my schedule is off and I'm getting my period early... nah, that's bull. Jess is keeping a better count of it than I do and since he's not avoiding me or talking about another vacation in fun-filled Utah.... Nerves. I'm getting to be as bad as Sam – and I don't even get the perks of being the honcho! So unfair. I never get to say cool stuff like 'To me my X-Men' or 'Spoooooon!' Sucks to be me. No fun at all. *  
  
She snickered quietly, watching Thom and Jimmy unite forces suddenly and advance on Mick, bravely defying the deadly spatula in her hand. Shaking her head she moved to join the rest of the two teams clustered around Romany. The older Wisdom sibling was curled up comfortably in a stuffed chair in the middle of the room, her eyes glinting with catlike contentment as she waited for the noise to die down. As she sunk cross-legged to the floor, Tabitha noted with some puzzlement the tall dark figure quietly exiting the room. She frowned unsure of where or why Malchus was going, but then Romany coughed meaningfully and Tab pushed the question to the back of her mind, to deal with later.  
  
***  
  
The screen door creaked slightly when Malchus pushed it closed. He sighed and shook out a single cigarette from the pack swiped from Pete's stash. Narrowing his eyes slightly against the sun coating the San Francisco streets with a brilliant golden sheen Malchus paused for a second, his hand lightly gripping the lighter. Turning his head slightly he glanced back inside, noting the faces losing their carefree expressions, shedding them and letting the practiced masks slide in place. He sighed again, a little shocked by how small they seemed to make the room. Not by their size, although in Peregrine's and Warpath's case it wasn't for any lack of trying. Nor were the numbers the sole reason, even though ten people did stretch the limits of the room a bit, spacious as it was. No, it was something else. Something about them that seemed to fill the room... nothing he could have put into words.  
  
Shaking his head, Malchus turned away as Romany continued to speak. Leaning over the balcony, he lit the cigarette, enjoying the view. The warm wind, the narrow street, the noise of the playing kids, the shadows and the light intertwining in stark contrast and in a shockingly fitting pattern, with the sunlight painting the white walls of the building into a strange, mad mosaic ... it reminded him of Rome. Strange that... How one could hate and love something that much at the same time. But there it was. There he was. He let the smoke out, watching with hooded eyes as the nicotine cloud hung before his face for a second before dissipating into thin wisps. The Eternal City... Maybe it was its stubborn refusal to die that had drawn his admiration. Burned, raped, sacked, mutilated – it hung on. From capital to ghost town, from center of the world to tourist trap and backwater of Europe – it remained. Like him. He had many favorites. Beautiful places, the spots of great memories. The burial grounds of friends... the burial grounds of enemies. But in the end it was Rome that he loved the most. Not Jerusalem, not even the.... well perhaps Her.... yes... perhaps Her. She was in his blood after all. Even after all these years he could feel her heat in his veins. Ever present at his core. Reminding him from whence he came.   
  
The desert.  
  
God willing, She was still fond of him.  
  
Closing his eyes Malchus reached out with his senses, looking for it. It took a while as the metal and stone taste of the city gave way to the salty, barely perceptible sea breeze. He reached farther, feeling every other sound and smell reduced to a dull 'mass' in the back of his head. He reached farther, past the chilly draught from Sierra Madre until he finally felt it. As the welcoming kiss on his brow, the warm embrace of a long lost friend – he felt it. Just a slight, weak gust carried by chance from the borders of Mojave, but it would do.   
  
He flicked the cigarette away and leaned farther in, concentrating. Catching the rhythm of the wind he focused his mind on a familiar figure, picturing him as he saw him last, hunched over the fire, old battered cloak over his shoulders. "Cass... Cass, I need you."  
  
As the bond faded and he slumped back exhausted, he could have sworn he heard a soft whisper. "Could your precious Rome do this for you, my dear?"  
  
***  
"I can not."  
  
"They are killing my men, Mongoose."  
  
"I can't."  
  
"THEY ARE KILLING MY MEN!"  
  
The intern hurrying down the corridor with a pile of papers jumped and dropped the stack as the deafening roar much like that of a wounded bear suddenly erupted from behind one of the closed doors. Picking up, the recently orderly and consecutively arranged papers, Boris sprinted down the corridor at a speed his PE teacher would have never believed possible.  
  
"I HEARD YOU! I told you already – there is nothing I can do!" Vazhin was leaning forward across the table, gripping the edge of the desk tightly enough that his knuckles turned white, the muscles on his neck taut as he wrestled his voice back under control. His upper lip curling in a snarl, he continued in a dangerously low voice, never taking his eyes off Kurasov, "Do you think I am working in this hovel because I have a nostalgic weakness for it, eh? I. Am. Out. Of. The. Fucking. Loop." Swallowing forcefully, Vazhin sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a second, before sinking back into his chair. "For now at least. This new guy, he thinks he's going to do better by bringing in his own people. And the Kommitet never liked the Otdel 13 - so they are just as happy to leave me out now. Pass me off as part of the Old Guard. New names, same game. I am getting back, but it takes time. And money. And I have nothing to give you now. Nothing."   
  
He raised his eyes challengingly back at the large man standing on the other side of the table. Kurasov was just standing there, silent now after his outburst a second ago, the great shoulders trembling with suppressed rage, his face a dangerous shade of crimson. After a tense moment the shoulders slumped, and Simyeon seemed smaller somehow, more tired. "My men, Alesha. They're dying. All over the city." The whisper touched something in Alexei's soul, the broken note seemed so... unnatural coming from Kurasov. The big man continued, looking with hard, heavy eyes directly at him, "He was nothing. Pacoste, scum. Just another former Kommitet man who decided to go freelance. Nothing! And then... he got a hand feeding him. I know the signs, Mongoose! And it's not just his KGB connections. Someone with access to stuff that FSB (Federal Security Service, the heir of KGB - Doqz) would chew their right arm off to keep secret. And money. Serious money. And even men. Not a lot. But quality. I don't know who and I don't know why. But I am not a fool! Vasiliy Parkov.." Kurasov spat the name out as if it was a piece of rotten fruit. "He could have never lasted a month in the City. And yet he lasted five years. And yesterday he finished off Karamovich. Burned him alive, with his family. He is a mad dog! He wants everything. And trust me, Mongoose – you don't want him running this City."  
  
"I don't want you running this City either."  
  
Kurasov's eyes narrowed, almost disappearing behind the brows, and his voice dropped even lower than before, "Is that your answer then?"  
  
"I already told you – I cannot help you. I don't have the resources, dammit! You don't think I noticed him? You don't think I tried already?! One of mine is missing in the City right now, damn you! Because Parkov's fucks gunned her down in the middle of the day! I can do NOTHING!"  
  
"He has powerful weapons, Neo weapons among them. And he started near their turf."  
  
Too late Vazhin remembered that Kurasov had never lost a poker game. He always knew the perfect time to pull the trump. The Neo. He looked at Kurasov, still keeping the mask of impotent anger in place. He fought down the thought that the mask was not _that_ far from reality. If Parkov was a front for the Neo... The thought was chilling. A simple turf war and rearrangement of the Moscow underworld was one thing. But the clearing the capital of Neo, with the help of X-Men, was his centerpiece in the Game, the fundament of the carefully laid plans that were going to bring him back from the shadowy corners to the hub of things. If it went south... another thing that hasn't changed and probably never would - if you made a misstep in your play for the ear of the Big Man and lived to regret it, you counted yourself lucky. At a certain level losing one move meant losing it all. And he was way past that level now. Fuck... all he needed was three days. Three quiet days. "I can not give you money. And I don't have enough men myself."  
  
"Give me a name. I want to know who is backing him. It can't be Neo alone. The capital is coming from somewhere else."  
  
"Done. What else?"  
  
"Anything you can."  
  
Vazhin frowned, tapping his fingers slowly as he considered. Swearing suddenly under his breath he reached down under the chair abruptly, coming up with a telephone. Setting the machine on the table he forcefully punched in a number, impatiently tsking as he waited for someone to pick up. When the familiar voice finally answered Alexei paused for a second, second guessing the decision for a split second, before speaking. "It's me, Valentine. Yes. I have a client for you. No, not the State. Private sector. Very, very private sector. The usual place, tomorrow at 9. I won't. Your client. Oh, I wouldn't worry, Thibodeau. You'll recognize him."  
  
***  
"Nice place." Logan said and downed another glass of wine. "Definitely a step up from the last one."  
  
"Ah yes." The dark-skinned man to his left sighed and absently filled Logan's glass again. "My beautiful 'Paradise' is no more. Burned down two years ago."  
  
"I heard. Sorry 'bout that."  
  
"Don't be, my friend! You are right. This new place, 'The Tambourine' -- it's much better, yes?" Armen's face fell a little as he surveyed the people dancing below. "It is strange though. I miss the old one sometimes. Yes... Strange are the ways of Allah. Another drink?"  
  
"Sure." Logan watched Armen surreptitiously as his host followed suit and emptied his own glass. Wolverine was quite sure that Armen was not trying to get him drunk. They had established the fact that Logan could consume unbelievably vast quantities of alcohol with no noticeable effect. He grinned, remembering Baku. No, Armen was just being his usual hospitable self. No use in hurrying him along. The little Georgian had his own firm view of priorities, the chief among them being - no business on an empty stomach. So sitting through dinner was pretty much a no-choice affair.   
  
Logan shrugged mentally and helped himself to another plate of the salad. Alima Dumbadze was as great a cook as her husband was a businessman. Logan threw another glance at his friend, who was getting steadily more maudlin – in direct proportion to the speedily disappearing wine. A shrewd trader, was Armen Dumbadze. Whether it was legal or not. Not a slouch when the business got a little ugly either. But he fervently tried not to let things go that far. Not an easy task, with him being a Georgian in Russia and all. Much like the Latinos in the US, the Caucasus peoples had to battle a considerable amount of racism, especially in these days when the Second Chechnya War was claiming still more lives. But... Armen survived. Always. An odd little man who converted to Islam 20 years ago and stubbornly refused to abandon his newfound faith, no matter the threats... of course he took some tenants a bit more seriously than others. But you couldn't ask a Georgian to give up his wine and honestly expect to succeed. There are limits.  
  
And he was a good friend. Good enough for Logan to drop everything and travel half the world when he got Armen's message. Logan sighed a little impatiently as Dumbadze launched into yet another tirade about the good old days. "Eh.. Armen? How about we take a look at the piece now."  
  
"Of course, my friend. Of course! Come with me! Come!"  
  
The trip from Armen's office to the storage room required a considerable amount of effort. The blinking lights and the raging techno rhythms were rather uncomfortable for someone with Logan's extra-sharpened senses. The smell of sweat of the tightly packed crowd deafened almost every other scent, worsening Logan's mood, since he felt effectively blinded.  
  
"It's right in here!"  
  
Logan nodded once to indicate that he heard Armen over the noise and determinedly made his way through the crowd. As the door of the storage room slammed shut behind him, a small sigh of relief escaped him. The room was soundproof.  
  
"Busy out there today, yes? Ah, to be young again."  
  
"It's overrated."  
  
"You are a sour, sour, sad little man, my friend. Probably because you can't get drunk."  
  
"Yeah, that's probably it."  
  
Armen shook his head and disappeared between the shelves that filled out the room in neat rows. "Let me se now... B4... C1... C2... Merciful Allah, I had not realized just how prosperous I have become. Look at all this crap."  
  
"The true mark of success."  
  
"Oh, shut up. Aha! This is it."  
  
Emerging from the murky depths of the storage, Armen grunted a little as he put down the wooden crate he was carrying  
. "Inside."  
  
::snikt::  
  
"Ai! How many times do I have to tell you - that's plain disgusting."  
  
Letting the unending stream of Armen's words wash over him, Logan expertly made the top of the crate into so many splinters. Reaching inside he dug into the Styrofoam, finally grasping something that felt heavy and metallic even through the wrapping foil.  
  
Untangling the covering material Logan asked quietly, "Who put it up?"  
  
"Ruchenko." For a moment it seemed as if Armen was hesitant, unsure. "Vitali Ruchenko."  
  
Holding what appeared to be the arm part of the suit, Logan gently ran his finger along the smooth metallic, green and purple surface, feeling the intricate work of the joint mechanism. He sniffed slightly, the familiar scent wafting at him, faint but still there. "I'm gonna have to have a talk with this Ruchenko guy."  
  
Armen Dumbadze sighed, the usually ever-present mirth fleeing his face. He sat heavily on the nearby crate, reaching inside his jacket for a cigarette. "How did I know you were going to say that?" He queried glumly.  
  
***  
Finally, Kurasov left. No thanks had been offered, they understood each other too well. Vazhin sighed and rubbed his eyepatch for a couple of seconds before firmly grabbing the telephone again. "Hello? Yes, it's me. I need you to dig something up for me. Yeah. Yeah. Someone is sponsoring an up and coming thug in the City. Parkov. Oh you heard did you? Somebody well monied and not afraid to spend it. Yeah. I realize that, just see what you can find. And do it fast."  
  
Alexei put down the phone and sighed again, trying to concentrate on the paper in front of him "That's it. No more interruptions. This is not that hard. I just made a mistake here somewhere, that's all. Just focus and recheck it ... fuck, I hate math."  
  
The phone rung.  
  
Vazhin pointedly ignored it.  
  
The phone rung again. Vazhin threw down the pen and glared balefully at the ringing machine.  
  
Just as the phone was starting ringing again, Vazhin made a desperate grab for it. "What?!"  
  
"Hey, chief." The cheerful voice on the other side of the line did little to improve Vazhin's mood.  
  
"LEVIN! WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"  
  
Deb winced and put one hand over the receiver, turning to smile endearingly at Rasputin, "Awww, he missed me."  
  
***  
"That's it? That's all you got?!"  
  
Pete's voice was cut off abruptly by Romany's glare. "Oh, you're now a frigging expert, huh? Think you can do better? No? Than shut the hell up before I turn you into a small hopping thing, capische?!"  
  
As brother and sister continued to try and glare each other down, Proudstar coughed somewhat diffidently. "Umm... Ms. Wisdom, ma'am?"  
  
"What?" Romany snapped, reluctantly transferring her eyes from Pete onto the new victim.  
  
"Well.. it's just umm..." James floundered a bit, momentarily looking toward Sam for support. Seeing that his redoubtable leader had wisely put a table, a chair, a TV and Thomas Peregrine between himself and the impending meltdown, James sighed and plowed on, "Well... your brother has a point. This is a bit sketchy. And you were in there for a while.... We sorta expected something more, you know?"  
  
Romany scowled, the black expression directed at no one in particular. "Rub it in, why don't you. It's like this – the last time somebody attempted to get all these components together was to assist in manifesting Set... Well more complicated than that, really, and quite ingenious in its own way. See, they couldn't just override the existing blocks so they had to go around them and..."  
  
"Romany!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Point?"  
  
Sticking out her tongue at Pete briefly, Romany collected her thoughts. "Ah, well, I knew about it of course. But you know... I'd never make the connection. And besides, Kragri was supposed to be destroyed."  
  
"Well it isn't." Domino commented just loudly enough to be heard, pointedly resting her hand on the side where the Kragri was surgically removed from her not that long ago. The wound closed surprisingly fast, but it still bothered her occasionally.  
  
"Well.. yeah. Obviously." The thing of it is, there is no reason that Tsung should want the Tetrad..."  
  
"Well that's the other thing I wanted to ask you. How do you know he _is_ after all four of 'em?"  
  
"It's actually very simple."  
  
"Oh yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. Malchus told me so." Romany bristled again upon seeing her statement being greeted with eloquently raised eyebrows. "He knows these things!"  
  
"And he told you the logic of how he came up with it of course, right?"  
  
"Sorta... It's complicated."  
  
"Mhhm."  
  
"Just trust me, all right? Kragri without the other three is just a portable repair shop. Nah. Tsung wouldn't tip his hand if he just wanted the green sucker. He is going for the whole shebang. Why, though..."  
  
"Maybe he is lonely. And wants a pet. Like Set. Set the pet. What better pet than that?"  
  
Bedlam raised his hands defensively under the hard, silent stares of his companions. "Just trying to lighten up the situation. I see the error of my ways now. Please don't kill me and perform unspeakably horrible acts upon my body."  
  
Sam closed his eyes tiredly, feeling the onset of a migraine. "Anyway, Romany, you said Malchus knows the location of the rest of the components?"  
  
"Not exactly..." Romany got out of her chair, glancing at the still closed balcony door, "When that thing with Set got nixed, the people who were there decided basically to split the goods and hide them. Each of them knows the location of only one of the components. I'm guessing that Tsung somehow tracked down one of them, but before he could get his hands on Kragri they.. umm... let Domino borrow it."  
  
"You can not imagine the depths of my gratitude."  
  
"So what do we do now?"  
  
"Simple." Pete stretched and yawned widely. "Malchus tells us the location of one of the things and we go set up there. He and Rom try to get the locations of the rest. Hmm.. Nick, how is it on your end?"  
  
"Umm.. eh." Nicholas rubbed his eyes, shuffling the bunch of papers in his hands, blearily. "Success varies. The files that Romany gave us, were very good. Very detailed. I tracked down this merc guy – Cable, and the X-man – Logan. No clue where Darkholme is. Magneto is.. well, we all know where to find _him_. As for the rest, Romany said that she'd take care of it."  
  
Pete turned and raised an eyebrow at Romany, "Explain."  
  
The older Wisdom shrugged, "Don't worry about it, bro. I know these people. The long-haired guy especially. Met him at the Belgrade Symposium on the Occult in Urban Society. He's in Moscow. The other guy... Malchus is contacting him right now. He's actually the one who knows the location of the first component. Well second technically, since Kragri would be the first... Anyway."  
  
"Great. What the hell is that?" Pete cocked his head as the strange warbling sound reverberated through the apartment.  
  
"Someone's at the door," Tab shrugged, "We kinda messed up the bell thingie."  
  
"Well get it, before it drives me into a killing spree!"   
  
Getting up with a groan, Bedlam approached the door, his hand on the holster he now refused to part with. "Who is there?"  
  
"YO! Open the damn door!"  
  
"It's doc. Ehhh, what's up, doc?"  
  
"Gee. Never heard that one before. Get me a drink, boy, before I give you an enema."  
  
Bedlam grinned and produced an open bottle, ushering the newcomer in. He liked Neal Bester, even if the guy was a little on the odd side. Probably because his blood content was 80 percent scotch. Bester was a slim dark-haired man of a medium height, who still preferred to dress in his uniform, conveniently forgetting that he was drummed out. Jesse wasn't sure what his relationship to Pete was, except that Wisdom trusted this guy not only to remove Kragri from Domino, but also to analyze... it. His train of thought was rudely interrupted as Bester suddenly paled and sprayed the liquid in his mouth on the floor. "OH GAWD! What the hell IS that?"  
  
"Umm..." Jesse smiled tentatively as he realized that he'd offered the doctor the wrong bottle, "Oops?"  
  
"Oops?! Oops?!! I'll show you oops, you little pissant! OJ! OJ!! You little poisoner, I'll..."  
  
***  
  
Nick shook his head and sluggishly gathering the papers decide to finally catch up on that elusive phenomenon known as sleep. Even coffee was starting to become less and less effective. Dropping on the small bed he sighed in sheer, unbridled contentment, tuning out the noise in the other room with blissful ease. He missed the mansion. He missed the mansion's electronic systems. He missed the mansion's bed. But the mansion was just too freaking big to sweep everyday for bugs. And, more importantly, the visit from Jack scared the crap from everybody.   
  
Nick shuddered sleepily, remembering the quiet evening when Mortimer had calmly announced that they had a visitor. Upon ascertaining who exactly this visitor was the Blue Room momentarily became a small mad house. He snickered, remembering the expression on Pete's face as he was being thrown into the closet. Nick was still not sure what happened after that. It was silly of them to think that the little duke out with the Apaches was going to go unnoticed in a city that was currently teeming with spooks. But he'd be damned if he knew how Jack drew connection to them that quickly. They had cleaned up their trail pretty thoroughly. Ah well. Jack did it. For he was Jack.   
  
For a moment there he thought they were dead for sure. And then... Thom of all people. Huh.   
  
Just before he drifted off into the peaceful, dreamless void, Nick wondered slightly what the hell Jack owed Thom. All Peregrine did was quietly mention Madrid, without even raising his head. And that was enough. Jack.. The Jack. Just looked him then turned around and left, without saying another word.  
  
Weird.  
  
***  
  
The shade held, despite the instability of the weave. It was a bit tattered around the edges but still intact as it reached its destination. Noiselessly it glided over the sleeping form of Nick d'Arfoix, pausing only slightly as the shade's sender narrowed his eyes suddenly at the prone body. It made its way into the main room, passing over the loud discussion, almost unnoticed but for the brief uncomfortable look on Romany Wisdom's face. It moved on, trembling slightly as its owner gritted his teeth with the pain of holding it together. Finally it made its way onto the balcony, hovering just behind the man hunched over the railing with a cigarette in his hand.   
  
"Enjoying the view, Agaspher? Or is it Malchus? I try to keep up with the changes, but I am rather busy."  
  
The short, gaunt man smiled thinly as he watched through the shade's eyes. To anyone else Malchus would have seemed to be in complete control, but not to him. They have been enemies for far too long. The flick of fingers, sending the cigarette flying, the tension in the shoulders. The pause before answering was very nice. But not enough. "De Leon. I wondered how long it would take you."  
  
"Ah, well... I am sorry to have kept you waiting. So many things to do these days. It really wreaked havoc with my time-table when your... associates destroyed the Coven. I had high hopes for the young Margaret. Ah, well. Ces't la vie."  
  
Finally Malchus turned around, his face calm and rather relaxed, nothing betraying the feverish speed of his thoughts. "So you went ahead and found a new protégé, then. I should have known. Why do you want to give him the Tetrad?"  
  
"Oh you mean you still haven't figured that out. How delicious! Why, it seems I overestimated you drastically, my dear friend." De Leon laughed out delightedly, suppressing the steadily increasing pain by will alone.  
  
Malchus's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, probably cursing himself for making such an obvious mistake. The expression was brief, soon giving way to the usual poker face. Crossing his hand and leaning back against the railing Malchus grinned humorlessly. "So. What exactly a point of this visit... Ponce?"  
  
The man waved his hand airily. "Nothing really. Just wanted to drop by and see how my old amigo was doing. Don't tell me you are not happy to see me?"   
  
"Ecstatic," Malchus said, deadpan, and de Leon smiled appreciatively as the defensive patterns flared brightly suddenly around the Eternal Jew, forcing the shade to back off a bit. The pain was almost unbearable now, it would bring anyone else to their knees. But he was not anyone. He would wait until the last if necessary. And suddenly just as the black spots were beginning to dance before his eyes he saw it. An opening almost too miniscule to be of use. A necessary evil when enforcing one's guards, and the chance he was hoping for. The blood streamed from his ears as he suddenly lashed out with a nearly all of his reserves. Nearly all. He screamed finally, as Malchus retaliated with grim competence, tearing his projection to pieces. Just a few years ago, it would have been the end of it. But not today.   
  
De Leon's screams were suddenly mingled with a raspy, air-sucking coughing laugh as he slowly lost the grip on consciousness. He never saw Malchus lip curl in a savage triumph as the last remnants of the shade dissipated, nor had he the opportunity to see the smallest, almost unnoticeable piece of the shade attach itself to the outer spiral of Malchus' protective weave.  
  
He couldn't, because he was very much passed out, falling to the floor and hitting his forehead on it with a solid 'thunk.'  
  
***  
  
One would think that the second man in the room would catch the falling body. Or at the very least make an attempt. One would be very wrong.  
  
"Well, there we go with the falling and denting the floor again. Westerners." The second man stepped over the unmoving body of de Leon and turned on the lights, illuminating a lavishly decorated room. The carpets seemed to cover every inch of the walls and the floor, except for one corner, in which a large pentagram was drawn and in which de Leon was currently rediscovering the joys of coma. Sparing him just a brief glance, the second man, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the individual who'd made the attempt on X-Force and Domino not so long ago, raised his voice slightly. "Yo! Minion! Get your ass in here."  
  
The door opened almost immediately, letting in a young, serious, blond man with the solid build of a boxer. "Mr. Tsung?"  
  
"Yes, Igor. Clean up this mess, would you? It seems our evil Yoda had another of his falling accidents."  
  
"My name is Nikolai, Mr. Tsung. Should we put Mr. de Leon in his quarters or the med room?"  
  
"Whatever." Marcus Tsung tapped his lip absentmindedly as a pair of men, dressed much like Nikolai, in black immaculate suits, entered the room silently and took de Leon away. "Any news about the Indian deal?"  
  
"No, Mr. Tsung. We are expecting the decision will be made any day now."  
  
"Right. That's what they said last week. I have bills to pay, you know. Time is money. Money is cable. Cable is Sopranos. I get very cranky if I don't watch Sopranos. Tell 'em that, Ivan."  
  
"My name is Nikolai, Mr. Tsung. Will that be all?"  
  
"Yes, you may go." Nodding slightly Nikolai backed into the door, closing it behind him.  
  
Tsung sighed and restlessly circled the room. "I am so very bored. Bored, bored, bored. Lalala. Hey, minion!"  
  
"Yes, Mr. Tsung?"  
  
"Nothing, just checking your reaction time. Excellent job. You may go."  
  
"Of course Mr. Tsung."  
  
"Bored. I am a very bored avatar of evil stuff. Minion!"  
  
"Yes, Mr. Tsung."  
.  
"Nothing. Heh. This joke NEVER gets old."  
  
"Yes, sir." Nikolai agreed, disappearing again.  
  
"Minion!"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"I am still bored. Let's go visit our guest. She always knows how to cheer me up. Excellent sense of humor."  
  
"Of course, Mr. Tsung."  
  
The pair departed the room immediately, Nikolai walking ahead, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that Tsung was whistling a currently popular tune and occasionally punctuating it by drumming on Nikolai's back. They walked through the long, well lit corridor, passing several closed doors, stopping before the elevator door. If Nikolai harbored any hopes that the wait or the ride down to the lower levels of the building would put a stop to Tsung's foray into the musical scene, he was soon disillusioned. By the time they reached their destination, and reached the only holding cell currently in use, Tsung went through much of the recent chart toppers, entering the cell while cheerily performing a spirited rendition of "Hit Me baby One More Time." The guards seemed suitably frightened. Nikolai still showed no outward sign of being bothered. The dirty, disheveled figure behind the bars sighed tiredly, "You again?"  
  
"Yes, indeed. Miss me?"  
  
"No. I never miss."  
  
"How droll. I was just telling my minion here, how much I enjoy your sense of humor."  
  
The girl in the cell shrugged, spitting at Tsung half-heartedly. Used to such greetings the latter nimbly side-stepped the attack, letting it hit one of the guards instead. "Now, now. I thought you never missed?"  
  
"I meant to hit him."  
  
"Ah. Well.. all right then." Tsung tapped his chin, looking at the girl thoughtfully. "Why are you doing that thing with your lip?"  
  
"What thing?"  
  
"You know, that thing with your lip. When you bite it and stuff. Isn't that painful?"  
  
"I have an oral fixation."  
  
"Reaaaally?! How fascinating. So in other words you arm is still killing you. All right. Hold that oral-fixation thought, I'll want to come back to it later. You." Tsung pointed at one of the guards, whose beer belly was straining the dirty sweater to the extreme, "Umm.. Volkov, right?"  
  
"Yessir!"   
  
Tsung shuddered, "Please don't ever salute again. It makes your layers move in the ways nature never intended."  
  
"Yessir!"  
  
"All right, it seems to me that the last time I was here I ordered that she be given a bath and her arm set. I see two options here. 1 – I am going crazy. That's not uncommon in the males of my family. If that's true I was just imagining things and that order never happened. We will dismiss that option however, because if it ever got out troops might get dispirited. That leaves the second option – " Tsing paused, looking at the guard fondly.  
  
The guard remained standing very still, seemingly hanging on every word. Tsung smiled indulgently. "See, Volkov, this is where you jump in and explain to me the second option."  
  
"Oh Yessir! I thought you were kidding, sir! Let this Jew-bitch rot in there!"  
  
"Ah." Tsung nodded understandingly and turned to the girl behind bars. The prisoner sat up on the pile of straw and upon careful consideration hesitantly bit into the stale loaf of bread, ignoring the exchange. "Hmm... I love having subordinates who are not afraid to take initiative."  
  
Volkov's face melted into a proud, gap-toothed grin.   
  
"Minion."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Tsung." The bullet impact threw the now headless body of Volkov harshly against the stone wall. Tsung shrugged amiably at the other two guards. "What can I say, he loves big guns. You."  
  
"Smirnov, sir!"  
  
"Whatever. Get her cleaned up, fed, and that arm set." Turning away Tsung started exiting the cell, then suddenly stopped and looked at Smirnov inquisitively, "Unless you think we should proceed differently?"  
  
"No, sir!" The guard shook his head emphatically, not an easy feat while trying to salute at the same time.  
  
"You sure, now?" Tsung's face reflected nothing but the utmost concern for the guard's opinion.   
  
Smirnov started to sweat.  
"Yes, sir!"  
  
"Well all right then. I am glad you approve. Let's go, Mikhail."  
  
"My name is Nikolai, Mr. Tsung"  
  
"Whatever you say, Boris."  
  
***  
  
As usual at this time of day, the streets of Hammer Bay were almost empty, the oppressive heat chasing the pedestrians to seek the refuge in the shade. The cars were far more numerous, although their numbers had dwindled considerably as the population of the Genoshan capital continued to change as more and more mutants emigrated here in hopes of finally finding a place where they could be accepted for what they are.   
  
The recent ravages of civil strife have left its marks, but while internal wounds were still fresh the façade of Hammer Bay shone with pristine, pale, somber beauty of Neo Classical architecture. Much like Berlin and Tokyo before it the city had to be rebuilt almost completely from the ground up following the civil war.   
  
One man was entrusted by Eric Magnus Lensherr, Consul Prime of the Republic of Genosha, to oversee the reconstruction -- Pierre le Blanc. In his hands Hammer Bay would become the microcosm of the new society that Magneto was building on the ashes of the old. Even the most ardent enemies of the new order had to agree that le Blanc had accomplished an almost impossible feat. One could almost believe that Hammer Bay was a Roman city transported through time by magic. The illusion was broken only by the automobiles and the tall Towers of Magistries that proudly ringed the Magda Forum. The city was immaculately planned, the broad, open streets cutting through the orderly districts, the verdant splashes of public gardens providing the places of shade and complementing the mostly ivory-white buildings.   
  
Few mentioned the deportations of the former owners of the land used to provide these beauty spots. After all they were flat-scans, guilty of ruthlessly exploiting the mutate population of Genosha for generations. It was justice, nothing more.  
  
If anything, many of the new immigrants took that as a sign of security, the sign of their changed position. They, the mutants, were the elite here. Protected by laws, by the rapidly growing and modernizing army and by the ever-watchful Magistry of Interior. And by the Consul prime himself. They were safe here. From anything.  
  
Hardly any of Hammer Bay's citizens would be surprised that, at that moment, their Consul was somewhat tiredly climbing the stairs to the last floor of the Magistry of Interior. They might be mildly curious as to why he didn't use the elevator or simply fly himself to his destination, and a little amused to find out that even the highest levels of government are not immune against the onset of vanity. Yes. Eric Magnus Lensherr, known and feared around the world as the militant terrorist Magneto, currently the unquestioned ruler of the Republic of Genosha, was feeling old.  
  
His secretary vainly tried to point out that he hardly looked 40. He bravely pointed out that negotiating several thousands of steps of the MI Tower was hardly dignified or rational. He knew he was fighting a losing battle from the very beginning. The Consul was feeling old. And he wanted to prove himself wrong. Which is why the secretary, who to his dismay found himself to be in far worse shape than the Consul, was currently wheezing his way up the same Tower, three stairs behind Magneto. Sometimes Ricardo Sanchez hated his job with pure and unadulterated passion.  
  
His feelings were shared rather completely by his counterpart to the head of MI, tt least at the moment. James Woolworth was standing behind his desk clutching an extremely rare Japanese vase in one arm and a rather battered teddy bear in the other. The rest of the floor was very, very empty. One could make the reasonable assumption that, since the floor was empty, it was also quiet. It would be a logical conclusion but for three things. The top floor of MI Tower housed the office of its Archon. The Archon had just received some bad news.  
  
The Archon was Amelia Voght.  
  
"Son of a bitch! I'll rip his freaking spleen out through his throat and shove it back up his ass! Stinking bastard!"  
  
The last curse was punctuated by the sound of something extremely fragile being thrown against the wall. James winced.  
  
"Didn't have time to save the lamp?"  
  
"No." Woolworth shook his head resignedly, not turning around. "She teleported me out."  
  
"Ah, well, I see you saved Rusty."  
  
"Well yes. Madame Archon would be very upset if she did something to hi... Your Lordship!"  
  
Magnus nodded, gesturing slightly with his hand, "At ease, Mr. Woolsworth. How long has she been at it, then?"  
  
"Your Lordship, I really couldn't..."  
  
"Your loyalty is commendable, James. However I'd really like to know whether it's safe for me to go in there."  
  
Woolworth was getting a little desperate at the dilemma he was facing, but thankfully he was saved from the choice by his boss. "Woolworth, get in here! I am going to need the files on the Skinner operation. Everything! Pronto!!"  
  
James sighed a wordless prayer of thanks and started to move toward the computer on his desk, checked only by the hand on his shoulder. "We are not to be disturbed for about two hours. Understand?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Good man." Giving his shoulder a squeeze Magnus disappeared into the office. Taking off his glasses James rubbed his face, tiredly wondering whether he should have brought more than two bottles of aspirin today.  
  
"Hey... Jimmy..."  
  
Putting his glasses back on James looked at the sweating, gasping figure in the door. "Hey, Ric. Water?"  
  
"Yes... please."  
  
Closing the door tightly behind him, Magneto looked at the MI Archon interestedly. "What was that last one? I don't think I ever heard you use that before."  
  
Voght scowled. "I made it up."  
  
"Ah." Managing to convey everything he wanted to say in one syllable was definitely one of Magneto's most infuriating personality traits, Amelia pondered as she kicked one of the chairs his way. "You heard?"  
  
"That you were bamboozled on the Gonsales op and someone used MI as his own personal assassin squad to take over Skinner's business including the Rave trade? You think that's what brought me here, Madame Archon? Perish the thought."  
  
Amelia sniffed, kicking the glass shards on the floor together into a reasonably neat pile of glass shards. "I'm looking into it."  
  
"I heard. I think most of the Tower heard. But leaving that aside. How goes the Recruitment Drive?"  
  
The two words seemed to immediately change the atmosphere in the room. The air of frivolity was gone, and the suddenly completely serious Vought pressed a series of buttons on the console built into her desk. Magneto waited calmly as he felt the hidden machines come to life, searching the room for bugs. Finally Voght nodded to herself, "Clean. All right. Mostly it's going according to projections. The whole idea seems to have been a haphazard, poorly planned affair. The X-men and several others managed to break the blockade and Earth is no longer a prison planet for Shi'ar. Many of the prisoners are to be deported shortly, back to the Imperium. Except for those whom we managed to identify and contact. They will prove invaluable to us, in my opinion. The Magistry of Defense and the Magistry of Science concur."  
  
Magneto nodded, taking the expected news in stride. "Americans?"  
  
Voght shrugged, "Nothing appears to have changed. Barring some spectacular upset Kelly has no chance."  
  
"Have you found Raven yet?"  
  
Amelia's lips pressed together in a thin line. "No. Not yet."  
  
"I trust that I don't need to remind you that an assassination attempt, which is almost sure to fail, will provide that very same spectacular boost you mentioned."  
  
"We will find her. Although, I think you are underestimating Mystique."  
  
Magneto's eyes met Voght's and held them until Amelia finally lowered her gaze. Standing up, Magneto continued calmly as if nothing had happened, "If she does succeed, the consequences may be far worse. Not only the internal measures against homo superior population are sure to be taken, it is inevitable, considering my ties with Darkholme, that the Genoshan republic will be blamed for the attack. Which will provide a solid pretext for the Americans to retaliate with full force. With the UN firmly behind them."  
  
Voght shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. They tried their best bet with the Avengers and failed. That hurt them. Even with the Avengers now officially operating as free-lancers, everyone still sees them as representatives of the US government." Amelia paused, shrugging again. She didn't feel the need to belabor the point. Magneto's children turned against him during that attack, and his protégé, Lorna Dane, also betrayed him. Still, he'd prevailed. And exploited the situation ruthlessly, when he spoke before UN. The United States denied any complicity in the incident but were not believed even by their staunchest allies. "I doubt they will opt for an outright military intervention against us.   
  
Magneto idly leafed through the papers covering the surface of the desk. "You are wrong. Also, what are the news on the Russian/Indian arms deal?"  
  
"They're close to an agreement. Should we intervene in some manner? Attempt to delay the sighing?"  
  
"No. It does not concern us directly at this point, and worried a Pakistan might prove useful. I want you to start laying the groundwork. In several days the Americans are going to go ahead with testing their new toy. That missile shield. Regardless of the result, the Russians are going to scream bloody murder, with Chinese and most of Europe not far behind. We will join the protest. Not first, but immediately after the Russians. They won't like siding with us, nor will the rest, but they will have no choice. All right, next..."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. We are one blood, you and I.

lko Disclaimer: Most of recognizable characters belong to Marvel. No profit is   
being made. As always - many thanks go to my betareader. Sincere apologies   
for the delay with this chapter, and I genuinely appreciate that some of you   
decided to stick with the story nonetheless. Thank you.   
Feedback and flames are welcome. 

*** 

The polished surface of the table shone blackly under the lamps' light. The   
table was great in its length, taking up most of the room. Sometimes the   
light would hit one of the glasses standing on the table, transforming it   
into a living gem for a briefest of seconds. And sometimes it would hit the   
men sitting around the table. The men. They were a strange collection.   
Dressed in the same expensive clothes, at first glance they seemed to be   
enough alike as to be relatives. The same soft, slightly bored features, the   
same receding hair, the same slight corpulence. And a bit of fear and hunger   
in their eyes, belying their appearance. None in this room were harmless, no   
matter their look. If they were, they'd have never made it to the table. 

Fear.   
Of other men, that were sitting by their sides, talking in shushed tones and   
mildly sipping water or alcohol. Fear of slipping and giving an opening for   
a dagger. Fear of growing complacent and soft, losing the skill to play the   
Game. 

Hunger.   
For more. To move one chair closer to the apex of the table. To get closer   
to the ear of the Man. To fatten the bank accounts in Zurich and Pretoria.   
To have their advice listened to. To stay in this room, at this table as   
long as they were able. Whatever the cost. 

The first impression was deceiving however. Upon closer inspection even the   
most amateur observer would have to agree that three men stood out from the   
backdrop of their colleagues. Two sat at the table, the secrets of their   
climb to win the privilege theirs and theirs alone. The third stood apart. 

One, a fortyish looking man with accurately cut pale blond hair and watery   
impenetrable eyes. No, one would be hard pressed to say that he cut an   
imposing figure. Of average build and slouching slightly it wasn't his   
physicality that set him apart. Perhaps it was a calm calculating look,   
slightly amused as he watched the others as if he knew some secret forever   
out of their reach. Perhaps it was his 'presence', the air of someone   
utterly sure of his position. Or perhaps it was the position itself - the   
one that most men in this room coveted at one time or another. If only for   
scant seconds. They were the smartest of the breed, after all. And the only   
thing that would be more dangerous than not being at the table, would to sit   
at its head. 

The simple truth known only too well to Vladimir Dorogov. As the relatively   
new president of Russia looked on his 'shadow cabinet' his face, as always,   
remained impassive, his feelings hidden safely behind a mask that served him   
well in his climb to power. 

His glance slid easily from face to face, as he glided over the shards of   
conversations, hearing everything and filing important things away for later   
perusal. With perhaps just a little more frequency his eyes would single out   
the figure to the right of him. One could hardly blame him; after all,   
General Maxim Golub cut an imposing figure. A perfect picture of a dashing,   
aging soldier, he was the only person in the room in the green of the   
uniform. Even seated he towered a head above the rest of the collective. He   
spoke rarely and drank less, seemingly content to observe. And if sometimes   
the steely blue eyes seemed to carry a faint air of scorn, none were unwise   
enough to make an issue of it. Not to his face, at least. 

With the peculiar arrogance of someone who feels in total control, the   
general seemed to be above the hushed backdrop of voices and whispers. In   
fact the only person in the room who seemed to be drawing his attention was   
not even at the table. And when his basso rolled commandingly across the   
room, he was still looking at the man standing by the door, whose single   
working eye seemed to be taking everything in, despite the lines on his face   
and the almost imperceptible slouch of the shoulders betraying his supreme   
tiredness. 

Alexei Vazhin was tired. Which was dangerous in itself, when being in this   
room with these people. What was worse, Alexei Vazhin was pissed. And his   
control was slipping. 

And if he didn't hold on to it, Alexei Vazhin was not going to survive the   
day, much less finally achieve his goal and win a sit at the table. For a   
briefest of moments he regretted initiating the gambit that brought him back   
to this room. 

As the silence fell and he once again became the center of the room's   
attention, Vazhin suddenly and desperately wished for a hand grenade. 

***   
"I'm very disappointed in you, Nick, I must say. Really disappointed.   
Heartbreakingly disappoint-" 

"I get the point, Thom. Get to the punchline already." 

"Punchline? Moi?" Peregrine raised his eyebrow, himself a visage of offended   
innocence. Seeing that his younger colleague refused to take the bait he   
sighed theatrically and relaxed back into his seat, gesturing languidly, "I   
simply cannot believe that you don't have a plane. My world no longer makes   
sense. All illusions - gone." 

The head of the d'Arfoix enterprises narrowed his eyes at his tormentor; "Do   
_you_ have a plane?" he inquired a bit testily. 

Thomas stippled his fingers and raised his eyes heavenward, seemingly deep   
in thought. For an absurd moment he looked like a bigger, African American   
caricature of Xavier and Pete swallowed a highly undignified giggle. Sam's   
amused glance at him and Tabitha's soft snicker proved that perhaps he was   
not the only one whose brain that mental picture invaded. Throwing the pair   
of X-Forcers an askance look, Peregrine shrugged and turned back to his   
prey, smiling at Nick fondly, "Well... not as such. But you see, I don't   
have to. You - do." 

Nick visibly gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a second. 

Thom batted his eyes innocently. "Would you like me to explain?" 

"Oh, yes! Please do!" 

Opening one eye Nick looked at Bedlam with an indescribable expression of   
scorn and disgust. "Traitor." Jesse shrugged and ignored him majestically. 

Thom smiled beatifically and raised his right hand, straightening his index   
finger. "See, there is a system to all things, m'dear boy. Quartet included.   
Everyone has a role to play. Mickey here - she's the Girl. Ow! I mean she is   
the highly qualified explosives expert. Yes. And our mutual pale friend in   
the corner yonder, Joakim - he's just the guy you want to slit somebody's   
throat in the dead of night. And you... well you are the Rich Guy. And   
dammit, you have to have a plane! I'm so very disappointed. All   
preconceptions shattered. Great Nicholas d'Arfoix is on the edge of poverty.   
Will lose house tomorrow. Maybe sooner." 

Nick dragged a hand over his face, keeping a hold on his temper. "Look, I'm   
not a freaking Bill Gates. Or Tony Stark. All right?! Do you have any clue   
how much a plane costs? And the maintenance?! I LOOKED at the projections,   
man! Nearly game me a damn coronary! I am not made of money, you... you...   
you big... thing!" 

Peregrine raised his hand again, imperiously turning away from Nick.   
"Please. Your pitiful excuses bore me." 

"Sonuva--!" 

While Nick appeared to struggle with a sudden onset of violent aphasia and   
was turning an interesting shade of purple, Bedlam frowned thoughtfully.   
"Wait... Wait-wait-wait. So you covered Mick, Joak and Nick - somebody get   
him a water, I think he's choking, but... What do _you_ do?" 

"Oh sure, set him up with a perfect line, why don't you." 

Shooting Joakim a quick dirty look, Thom smiled benignly at Bedlam, "Why,   
isn't it obvious? I am the pretty one!" 

Nick grinned slightly and reclined back into his chair, closing his eyes,   
halfheartedly following as the conversation veered on its course toward the   
opposite end of the aircraft. The exchange had an impeccable timing, as the   
silence was definitely taking on depressing overtones. Couldn't have that,   
before a mission. He stretched surreptitiously, wishing, with just a bit of   
petulance, for a pillow. This was going to be a long trip. He shook his   
head, an imperceptible motion, gone unnoticed by the rest of his comrades.   
Moscow. 

It was somewhat ironic, Nick thought suddenly that just seconds after he'd   
helped to raise the overall mood, he seemed to be determinedly heading into   
the angst pit himself. His lips curved slightly in a humorless smile. Life   
was full of interesting surprises like that. And they were going back to   
Moscow. Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed. 

Thom seemed to be taking it well. Considering. 

He was the only one that survived from the Omega team after all. He saw the   
whole thing go down. When they bugged out, he was the one with Lev's brains   
splattered all over his clothes. Nick's grin twisted by an iota, into a fair   
imitation of a snarl. 

Lev Teretz, the dashing, witty and all around perfect chief of the Greenhorn   
Brigade. Hard to believe it's been seven years already. Damn. Time doth fly   
when you're not looking. Nick sunk yet deeper into his chair and behind his   
eyelids the memories came. He was barely out of his twenties then, no longer   
than a year with Black Air. Deathly tired of the constant training and tests   
and exams and checks and evaluations and training and pig-headed superiors   
and training. Absolutely convinced that he was more than ready for Field   
Ops. And then, just as he seriously started to think that he wasn't good   
enough and was destined to become one of the 'drones' they approved him.   
Finally. He was going to actually leave the facility for the first time in   
eight months. He chuckled softly. And then of course he met the rest of the   
graduating class. That was a... unique experience. Ridiculous of course. Ten   
very different people barely out of their training and they were expected to   
function as a ready-made unit. Of course he had his doubts about the whole   
thing from the beginning. It was an open secret that BA was stretched pretty   
thin back then. Needed every warm body they could get their hands on. Still   
it made no sense to him... standard teams' size never exceeded five members.   
And that's at the most. Ten? Unheard of. 

Cumbersome. Unwieldy. Noticeable. Unworkable. 

Stupid. 

But that was swiftly cleared up in the commencement speech, by none other   
than great Threadgold himself. Just a mere department head then. Still a   
good couple of years before he dislodged and 'retired' Tremaine. Not that it   
made a whole hell of a lot of difference. To them about anyone higher than a   
tech was God. And Threadgold was legendary to boot. And he was going to come   
and talk to them and wish them luck and tell them he was proud. 

Riiiight. 

A half an hour of standing rigidly at attention, listening to that egomaniac   
ranting about their complete lack of aptitude for the business. That was   
fun. Especially the part where he didn't expect them to survive the year's   
end. Cue the majestic exit. And Lev's rather impolite gesture toward the   
retreating back. "Bloody wanker. Probably hasn't been laid in years. Doubt   
he has the equipment, even." 

Nick could have sworn he saw Threadgold stumble a bit. Hey... the man did   
have a VERY keen hearing. One never knows. Anyway if he did hear, he   
declined to pursue it. And so Lev scratched his chin, grinned at them and   
winked. "Hey, unclench. We just graduated." 

And they were off. 

The Chief pointed them. GrimBo, ChinChin and Nick planned. Lev led. The rest   
followed and tried not to shoot any allies. Success varied and generally the   
other units looked upon being partnered with them in a... less than ecstatic   
light. They also drew straws whenever possible. For the loser obviously. 

"Well what did you expect exactly?" Lev inquired curiously, when Nick found   
him in the hangar tinkering with the Flying Crapper. 

"I dunno... It's just not fair. Y'know?" 

"No actually, I don't. Why don't you... No! No! I am telling you, Chin, it's   
not going to work, we're... Aw, shit. All right, all right, but remember - I   
warned you." Muttering under his breath and brushing the unruly lock of   
dirty-blond hair out of his eyes Lev clambered up from under the aircraft   
and hooked a dishrag with his foot, propelling it up into his hands. Wiping   
off the oil he squinted at the half-hidden silhouette hunched over in the   
cockpit and shook his head, "Crazy. Gonna blow all of us to kingdom come.   
Let's go, before she hits it." 

Looking over his shoulder periodically with a hint of genuine nervousness in   
his eyes, Lev herded Nick out of the hangar and fished out a pack of   
cigarettes as they stopped, hiding behind the corner of the structure from   
the biting Kent wind. Shielding the timid flame of the match with his palm,   
Lev lighted up; throwing a faintly amused glance at Nick, "Where were we   
then?" 

"It's not fair!" 

"Oh. I remember now. As I was saying, first of all you're exaggerating just   
a bit. They are not drawing lots. This is a serious organization after all,   
you know. They flip coins." 

When Nick proved to be less than appreciative to his sense of humor, Lev   
sighed heavily. "Oi. All right. What exactly is buggin' you?" 

"What do you mean, 'what exactly'?" 

"Oh fer cripes sakes.. Lemme guess. You little inner schmuck is feeling all   
wounded. Pride is hurtin'. Nicky be wanting some respect! Izzat it?" 

"Well... yeah. Except for the... you know... schmuck part. 'cos that'd be   
detrimental to my self-esteem." 

Lev took another deep drag on the cigarette and held it in for a moment.   
Exhaling with a loud sigh he cast his eyes heavenward, squinting in an   
expression of slight exasperation. "Christ, I'm beat... My kingdom for   
twelve hours of glorious, uninterrupted, junk-food induced sleep." He sighed   
again and scratched his nose absently, glancing at Nick briefly. "Okie.   
lemme see if I can break it out for you. How do I put it gently now... " 

"They're all jealous?" 

"Well... Yes, sure that's one way of saying it. Personally I was thinking   
more in terms of 'we suck ass'... but you know. It's all in the   
perspective." 

"Huh?" Nick contributed intelligently. 

"You know. Perspective. As in I have the right one, and you're dumb as the   
proverbial post." 

"Hey!" 

Lev glanced at Nick again, a little puzzled frown pulling his eyebrows   
together, "You're a Monosyllable Man now? Going for the 'strong and silent'   
image? Chicks dig that. But I gotta say, I'd start with the 'strong' part,   
'cos that thing with the suitcase in Prague? That was pitiful. Plus if you   
go 'silent' who am I going to argue St. Augustine's precepts, as inherent in   
The Simpsons Halloween eps, with?" 

Nick blanched visibly as the name of the Roman theologian was mentioned but   
recovered quickly, steering the conversation back onto the original track   
with the mastery of someone long used to Lev's rambling and frighteningly   
aimless non-sequitors. "I shall ignore that 'post' remark. 'cos I am that   
nice. But I still don't get... I mean, how are we worse than any of the   
Strikers?" 

A loud banging noise carried from the hangar and Lev winced, pausing to look   
towards the closed door for a second. "Oi. Oi-oi. Well, at least it's   
insured." 

Nick cleared his throat tactfully and Teretz raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh,   
all right. How do you define 'quality' exactly? What makes you think Striker   
teams and we are on a par?" 

"Umm... well... Mostly the fact that we are alive, I guess? We do our   
missions, we don't lose anyone - ergo we are good. Right?" 

"Wrong. That doesn't mean we're good. It only means one thing." 

"What's that?" 

"We are lucky in the damndest unholiest way I've ever seen." 

"Oh, bull! C'mon now! Over seven months in the field on luck? No way." 

"Oh. Well if you say so. I will have to bow your supreme voice of   
experience. Hey, Bo." 

The diminutive Cambodian nodded shortly and unceremoniously dropped to the   
ground cross-legged, leaning against the wall. "Bo greets you, pale-faced   
products of imperialistic and morally bankrupt culture. What's going on?" 

"Not much. Nico here was just explaining to me that we are the best team to   
hit BA since the Iggy Michaels." 

"Well, that's not what I sai..." 

"Was he really? Bo wants to hear that." 

"Well, ses.." 

"Bo likes Westerners making idiots out of themselves." 

"Hey now..." 

"Please continue. You have Bo's undivided attention." 

Pinching the bridge of his nose in what was starting to become a habit, Nick   
glared at the duo. "All right! Fine. Let Bo tell me why we are so   
successful. Keeping that HIGHLY annoying third person crap to the minimum.   
C'mon, Confucius." 

"Yo, don't be dissing Confucius, yo. Bo don't stand for that kind of shit." 

Lev let another stream of nicotine into his bloodstream and nodded   
understandingly. "Messed with the array again to watch the Shaft marathon on   
TBS, huh?" 

Ignoring Teretz magnificently, Bo looked up, to fix Nick with small black   
eyes. "Palden Lhamo the Dharampala the Bodhisattva is watching over us,   
bless her heart. No doubt about it." 

"Jesus Christ! I'm telling you, we're good!" 

Bo looked at him with a slightly puzzled expression on his face, before   
glancing at Lev. Who shrugged fatalistically. "I dunno. Thom put   
amphetamines into his coffee again?" 

"Enough." Bo fell silent, seeing that Nick was genuinely aggravated. "We're   
not bad. I know. I... just know. Right?" 

Exchanging a quick glance with GrimBo, Lev flicked the cigarette butt away   
with an almost inaudible grunt, and gripped Nick's shoulder gently. "Hey.   
Calm down. It's just a fact. We have a slight edge over most of the new   
wave, but the Strikers are real professionals. Bo and I we work with their   
analysts a lot, sharing data and such. And I am telling you, those guys are   
sharp. They pick up stuff, I skim over ten times as inconsequential. And   
have you ever compared their ops reports to ours? We are fumbling amateurs.   
Remember Prague? What if the taxi wouldn't have crashed? Chin and Mike would   
be decomposing in some Czech village right now. And I don't even want to   
think about the Helsinki extraction. We're not good. And we won't be for a   
while yet. But we ARE lucky. Extraordinarily so, in my opinion. Maybe it   
will even last us." 

The needles slowly disappeared from Nick's eyes and he sighed shortly,   
shivering a little, "I don't believe in luck." 

Bo's mouth opened in a nearly perfect 'O' of shock. "Foolishness! Bo don't   
play that!" 

Making a sign of the horns the short man glared fiercely at d'Arfoix, the   
tinkle of the amulets he fingered protectively carrying faintly with the   
wind. "Fool boy. He thinks he knows it all. Bamboo head. Probably still need   
help tying his shoelaces. Idiot Westerner. Still think the world is flat."   
Spitting over the shoulder and still muttering under his breath Grim   
disappeared into the hangar. 

"Well. Nice going, Nicky." 

"He'll survive." Nick retorted a bit testily. Mostly to shut up the quiet   
and nasty voice inside that took up where Lev left off. About some idiots   
who run off at the mouth constantly. Everyone knew about Bo and his   
unshakable belief that Lady Luck ruled the world. The voice sounded   
uncannily like Thom and that too worsened Nick's mood. He hated when Thom   
was right. 

Lev squinted understandingly. "Uh-huh." 

"Shut up." 

Lev chuckled and a second later Nick felt the warmth of his hand ruffling   
his hair. "You're ok, aristo. And don't worry too much about it. We'll   
survive probably. Not like it's the first time. They did the same thing   
before, to plug the manpower holes. Give the Basic spottily and out into the   
field. Hell, some of the best came out that way. May we will be the next   
Iggy Crew." He grinned, a brief flash of white, "If you stop insulting Lady   
Fortuna. And more importantly The Grim Shorty." 

Nick sniffed. " All right, already... I'll catch him tonight, talk and   
stuff." 

"Catch whom?" 

Nick frowned at the familiar, larger than life figure. "None of yours,   
Peregrine." 

"Ooooh. Touchy, touchy. Well, than.. and here I was rushing to forewarn you   
of imminent danger. No thanks at all. No respect for life and limb..." 

The bad feeling was already making its way along Nick's spine. "Danger? What   
kind of danger?" 

Thom grinned widely and winked at Lev. "You know what kind, Nico. You Don   
Juan, you." 

"Oh, God. No. Not again." 

"Look at that white boy run..." Thom whistled a bit admiringly. 

Lev raised an eyebrow, appraising Peregrine. "You're a bad, bad man." 

"I know." The big man agreed easily. "You should try it sometime. Very   
therapeutic. Plus. I didn't even have to lie this time. Here cometh..." 

Coming was a very interesting representative of Humanity. 

Inez Da Silva towered over most people at an impressive height of 6'5. The   
black-haired Brazilian and her temper were infamous throughout the whole   
facility by now. Probably as much as her relentless and somewhat   
frighteningly obvious pursuit of Nick. Inez first saw him at the   
'graduation' and had taken a definite liking to the serious and   
delicate-looking youth. Never hesitant, she made her feelings very known   
very quickly. The denials of reciprocation from Nick were brushed aside as   
insignificant details eventually provoking d'Arfoix into the very inglorious   
'run-and-hide' maneuver. Which had continued ever since, much to the delight   
of the rest of the team. And especially Thom. 

Who hid a snicker and took on the most innocent of expressions as Inez   
strode determinedly by, throwing him and Lev a disinterested look. 

Less then seven months would pass when Inez da Silva, bleeding from three   
wounds, would topple onto a grenade, saving Nick's life. 

In ten there would be Moscow. 

*** 

The warehouse stunk. Literally. The effluvium of rotten fish and excrement   
filled his nostrils, almost making him gag as he stepped through the hole,   
decorated with the remnants of the gate and the sickly warm curtain of   
noisome air, into the cool interior of the building. His steps echoed,   
reverberating and changing slightly as the glass teeth of the windows   
trembled with the sound. The resulting note set Logan's teeth on edge.   
Nothing around him seemed to dispel the nagging premonition of BAD, the   
unsettling whispering in his bones. 

"Allah the All Merciful the Lovingkind - this is just like home. Now I   
remember why I ran away. Ai-ai-ai. Aiii-ai." 

Logan could smell the same unease on the little Georgian, clambering up the   
unintentional barricades of broken boxes and refuse in front of him, but   
that was his only clue. Was he to judge by the voice or the appearance   
alone, nothing would betray that his guide was anything else but cheerfully   
annoyed at the surroundings he currently found himself in. 

"Armen, you old thieving buggerer of innocent children and small animals.   
Are you insulting my place?" 

Logan heard Armen's heartbeat quicken at the sudden boom of the second   
voice. He kept silent, less startled than his friend. Although they both   
expected this, Armen did not have the singularly useful advantage of his   
heightened senses. And the sharp, noxious smell of several sweating men cut   
even through the less than aromatic atmosphere of the abandoned building.   
Absently he noted the shallowness of their breaths. 

"Who me? No, kazo. Wouldn't think of it. Just nostalgic, is all. Ugh....   
Also, a bit of advice - invest heavily into air conditioning, eh?" 

"I should have shot you long ago, short stuff." 

"You tried. Remember? Tsk-tsk. Did not turn out too well. Tsk-tsk." 

"Heh. You're like my rats. Always coming back." 

The loud voices, amplified by the layout of the warehouse, spooked the flock   
of crows into sudden and almost vertical flight. As the small black cloud of   
feathers, beaks and darkly sparkling beady eyes passed the opening of the   
warehouse, Logan could've sworn that he saw one of the ravens wink at him. 

"Guess I could've used a bit more sleep. Nerves are starting to go." 

Armen's shoulders moved in a slight, annoyed gesture at Logan's subvocalised   
musings and he shut up, slowly looking around him instead as they came to a   
stop. 

The inside of the building seemed like a Caravaggio's paining gone mad. The   
general gloom of the building clashed with the brilliant sunlight pouring   
through the broken door and fading just a few meters in. And, as if by the   
design of the master of chiaroscuro, the streams of light storming brazenly   
through the narrow, rectangular windows up near the ceiling, took over from   
there, never actually dispelling the gloom, but also preventing any real   
darkness. The microcosm of the eternal war between night and day, in the   
most incongruous of places. 

They were standing in a small clearing and Logan could feel the familiar   
itch of an instinct between his shoulder blades as he realized the mounds of   
trash turned this place in a valley of sorts. With the second speaker and   
the rest of the people he smelt still invisible and standing in the open in   
an unfamiliar territory like that, Logan couldn't help but feel like a   
sitting duck. The uneasy feeling within grew. 

Armen looked around and yawned briefly. "Aiiii. It's been a long night.   
So... you gonna play hide-n-seek all day? Come on, we have business to   
discuss and..." 

"And?" 

Dumbadze grinned, "Tell your boys not to get jumpy, I'm reaching inside my   
jacket..." 

After a second or so of ostentatiously unhurried rooting, Armen produced a   
fat bottle of mauve liquid and waved it, making the wine sparkle brilliantly   
as the golden specks of dust disturbed by the commotion danced feverishly in   
the sun-speared air. "C'mon out." 

"Tempting. Very tempting. But you know me. I'm ever so shy. Who's your   
friend?" 

"This? That's a customer. He's interested in one of the items I've acquired   
recently. Wants to buy in bulk, see." 

"Ah. And you so thoughtfully decided to introduce us." 

"Well, you know me. Always looking out for my friends. So. Can we get on   
with this? My feet are starting to hurt." 

"Well. We can't have that." A shrill whistle cut through the air and   
suddenly a portion of seemingly random mound of garbage moved sideways,   
creating a gap through which a tall and very corpulent man appeared, moving   
leisurely. Logan blinked. For a moment he thought that it was Shadow King   
himself. "Really need more sleep." 

"Shut. Up. I'm working here." 

Logan could feel his eyebrow arching and forcefully arrested it. Apparently   
his first impression was correct, he could not remember the last time Armen   
was so wound and concentrated. 'He's actually afraid of this guy' Logan   
suddenly realized with somewhat of a start. Filing this uncomfortable tidbit   
of information away he fell silent and once again concentrated on the large   
figure, clad all in white. Vitali Ruchenko. One of the very select and small   
group who could be said to control the Moscow black market in some measure.   
It was remarkable that Armen knew him personally. It was nothing short of a   
miracle that they were on relatively good terms. It was almost unbelievable   
that the man consented to a personal meeting after only a miniscule delay.   
All because more than a decade ago Armen saved his life. Contrary to the   
myths inspired by the cynematographic exploits of Corleones and Robin Hoods,   
honor among thieves was a largely nebulous proposition. Acknowledgement of   
debts such as these... sheer luck. Luck. 

Ruchenko stopped, several feet away, sweating profusely and fanning himself   
with a white fedora. "I hate the city in the summer." 

"You look good, Vitali. Lost a few pounds?" 

"Flatterer. Do go on." 

"I see you are still on your 30's fixation? I mean really. A fedora?" 

"I'll have you know that this is one thing that will never go out of   
fashion, my short and fashion-challenged friend. They're eternal, timeless.   
Mmm... I was born too late and in the wrong country. 1930s... Those were the   
times. When men were men." 

"Yeah. And so were the women. What's wrong with my clothes?" 

"Unfortunately we simply don't have that kind of time. To the point,   
gentlemen, if you will. How may I serve you?" 

Armen raised his hands and grinned easily. "I'm here strictly in a middleman   
capacity this time. My friend here is a collector of sorts, you see. He's   
interested in an item I acquired sometime ago. He's interested in bulk   
purchases." 

A spark of interest glinted in Ruchenko's eyes, quick and fleeting but   
bright nonetheless. "Indeed? And what item, might we be speaking of, Mr...?" 

"Patch." 

Nothing in Armen's bearing betrayed what he was thinking about Logan's use   
of alias. The Georgian maintained his polite smile stepping back   
imperceptibly, subtly reinforcing the impression that he was wholly   
subordinate to Logan. Who at this point was trying to figure out why he   
suddenly fell back on his old alterego. He pushed the thought back. Later.   
For now he'd just go with his instincts. 

"Mr. Patch. Interesting name... " Something flickered across the man's face.   
A recognition? Logan stilled his face into a motionless, impassive mask and   
waited. 

"Now..." Ruchenko's right arm moved slightly and something softly fell into   
his palm. "What item did you say, interested you?" 

"I didn't." 

Ruchenko raised an eyebrow, his face assuming a look of slight boredom and   
his finger pausing over his palm pilot. "Shall we dispense with bullshit,   
Mr. Patch?" 

"I will if you will, bub." 

"Marvelous. Well?" 

Logan glared at the big man for a moment, his irritation, misgivings and the   
persona of Patch coalescing perfectly into foul mood. Stifling a snarl he   
dropped the bag he was carrying on the floor and kicked it toward Ruchenko. 

"There. I'm betting that'll jog your memory." 

The black marketeer looked at the black bag at his feet disinterestedly and   
snapped his fingers in an imperiously offhanded gesture. 

Logan snorted under his breath. As a square-jawed man in a cheap suit and a   
crew cut that made his ears seem twice their size bent over to open the bag,   
Ruchenko smiled with a distinctly chilly look in his eyes. "I say, Armen,   
you really should try and raise the level of your clientele." 

"Shove it, fatboy." 

"What was that, Mr. Patch?" Ruchenko's head snapped up abruptly, focusing   
Logan's unease at something tangible. 'Bet my ass he's not all fat. Just how   
much of _that_ is muscle...' 

Armen chuckled nervously and very carefully stomped on Logan's foot.   
"Nothing at all, Vitali. He's been a little under the weather. Cough, you   
see." 

"Really?" The big man's voice dropped the temperature several degrees. 

As Logan inhaled to answer, Armen widened his smile a little desperately and   
ground his heel into Logan's foot again. "Really. Unused to Russian windy   
nights, I guess. You know how it is." 

"My sincere condolences." 

Logan frowned, as he caught the subtle change in Ruchenko's inflection. The   
Russian turned his back to them, apparently deep in examination of the   
spacesuit's part that his gofer fished out of the bag. 

"Yes. I _am_ sorry, Armen. I really wish... Well... No matter. Now, Vanya." 

"Sonuvabitch. He _still_ hasn't changed his tone!" The vague and fleeting   
thought evaporated as Logan's headlong dive culminated in the pile of wooden   
rabble. And as the blast shutters on the windows and the door slammed shut,   
he couldn't help but agree when Armen breathed with quiet and sad   
conviction, lunging for the opposite corner, "Oh, we are sooo fucked." 

The darkness that descended onto them was complete and coupled with the fact   
that the shutters came down with mechanical precision had an unsettling   
effect by itself. He had been half-anticipating trouble, but even so, the   
sudden attack disoriented him for precious seconds. Fortunately his reflexes   
proved more reliable and while his mind was still throwing off the last   
clinging threads of the shock and his eyes were adjusting to the change in   
the light, his body was already moving, rolling away, the training taking   
over. 

The blurring shades of Ruchenko's mercs danced in the corner of his eye and   
Logan dove again. As their form suddenly loomed large above the pile in   
front of him and the impossibly large gun-barrel seemed to be staring him in   
the face he suddenly heard a vile curse and then the two men jumped   
themselves, moments before the top of their barricades exploded under the   
barrage of pistol fire. 

By the time he looked over he was only in time to catch Armen already   
moving, sliding away and to the left, only the darker than dark patch   
confirming the presence of the gun at the end of the arm, rigidly clutched   
at a steep angle to the body. 

As his eyes adjusted, the darkness proved to be an illusion, the shapes   
becoming more focused, the deadly strings of laser sights splitting the   
oily, smoky murkiness of the warehouse air, combing the building and   
betraying the positions of the shooters in turn. Still, in an unfamiliar   
building, outnumbered and almost caught by surprise the perverted game of   
cat and mouse could have only one end. It didn't take long, two short and   
ugly unexpected meetings in the dark left Logan unharmed but the two corpses   
didn't go down quietly and before long the X-Man found himself being   
corralled with mechanic, inescapable precision. The intermittent sound of   
sporadic gunfire from somewhere to his right was the only sign that Armen   
was still alive. 

Logan never explained, even to himself, his reluctance towards firearms. In   
course of his lifelong career as a soldier and an adventurer he didn't have   
a choice but to become proficient in the use of the tools of his trade. His   
memory might not always be reliable but the reflexes remained the drilled in   
expertise always there to call upon. And he never let it dissipate, never   
let it rust away, training constantly, devoting as much time to fire   
practice as he did to kata. But... When missions came along, more often than   
not he'd pause, the holster with Desert Eagle and the clips carefully oiled   
and ready to be packed - never actually making it to the travel bag.   
Arrogance? Fear to introduce a variant, not as reliable as his own claws,   
into life and death equation? The 'animal' inside of him growling its   
instinctual distrust and fear of the powder-smelling instrument of death?   
The Bushido values scorning a treacherous, cowardly way to victory? 

Hard to say. He never followed the thought to its logical conclusions.   
Always falling back on the grimly smug satisfaction that he didn't need any   
crutches to be dangerous. Of course now and again the doubts came back and   
his logic did not seem quite as rock solid. Like for example when he was in   
the crosshairs of what looked to be... 

"Holy shit..." 

RAD 13 Cold Coil barked, barely missing Logan and leaving a smoking crater   
behind. Wolverine tucked and rolled, once again barely escaping incineration   
as the second beam slammed down just inches behind him, the ionized air   
assaulting his nostrils and the heat drumming sweat out of his skin. 

"Fucking energy weapons. Fucking Genosha. Fucking black market. Every   
fucking idiot is sporting a fucking tank. I miss the fucking Cold War. Oh   
shit, here comes another one..." 

Gritting his teeth, Logan's upper lip rose in a feral snarl as he realized   
the only possible course of action and quite deliberately stepped out from   
the third beam. Into the AK47 line of fire. 

The accidental hot air pocket exploded magnificently throwing him across the   
floor, inadvertently letting him escape the worst. But even that push   
couldn't prevent the scalding bite of the bullets slamming into his left leg   
and the agonizing pain of a wooden shard puncturing the same leg right under   
the knee. 

Ignoring the pain of the torn off skin and the reknitting flesh of the exit   
wounds Logan used the remaining momentum and his arms' leverage to throw   
himself over the nearest pile of garbage, biting through his lip when the   
throw slammed his bad leg into the ground. The crimson line of the laser   
followed him shortly, slowly but surely feeling its way toward him,   
occasionally blinking away as the sniper fired. Spitting out the blood   
pooling in his mouth Logan grunted and tore out the wooden dagger out of his   
leg in one swift movement. He grunted again as the pain hit him with its   
usual secondary delay and with it the realization that not all of the AK   
bullets had punched through cleanly. 

The red dot disappeared again and the bullet sheared the old can, barely a   
meter away from his head. Wolverine snarled again but coldly pushed down the   
impulse to try and move. Even his healing factor wasn't that fast. And as   
dangerous as the sniper was, he was only a spotter for the guy with the   
Coil. Energy weapons. Immediately cauterizing any wound. One of the few sure   
things to stop him dead in his tracks... did they know he was coming? Was   
this an ambush from the very start? 

The rifle spoke again, but immediately the change was obvious and the   
confirmation wasn't long in coming as the metal plate across from him   
shuddered, the rust flying as the whiteness of punctured steel flowered.   
Another shot; another miniature crater bloomed, sending tremors through the   
plate, uncomfortably closer to where Logan lay, swearing under shallow   
breath. 

"Armor piercing. I don't believe this shit." 

Logan scowled, worrying the cut on his lip open again, his eyes darting,   
looking for options. Even as the shots drew closer, there still was time...   
time come up with _something_. Nothing presented itself, when suddenly a   
faint noise drew his attention. As another bullet tore its way through the   
surrounding junk a small shape almost invisible in the darkness darted from   
below and zigzagged between Logan's feet. The rat was obviously maddened   
with fear and perhaps pain, its run erratic as the rodent careened into a   
half-shattered glass jar, sending the vessel rolling. 

Logan's eyes widened a bit in an unbelieving expression and his head moved   
faintly in an aborted shake. "Fuckin' typical. X-Men luck - always bad." 

The faint hum and click of the Coil's charging mechanism reminded him that   
his options just got drastically reduced. Throwing one last glance into the   
direction of the rat that effectively killed him, he spat and moved, as   
always wasting no time once the decision had been made. As he jumped he   
thought a little sourly that it was a good thing Summers was dead, or he'd   
have an apoplexy just from seeing him. LeBeau used to drive Cyke absolutely   
nuts with this move, seemingly all show and completely and utterly   
inapplicable in any rational fight scenario. His leap was nowhere near as   
pretty he thought irritably as he landed hard and rolled away, checking the   
instinctual protective movement toward the hurt ankle. But then Cajun never   
did have to try it with a bum leg and half his face on the floor. He snorted   
faintly and froze, listening intently and scanning the darkness. 'Pretty or   
not, I get the job done. My turn now.' 

He straightened slowly, the muscles in forearms taut, eager for that little   
brain impulse that would release the claws. Feral satisfaction glinted in   
the darkness as he grinned, finally hearing a small noise and wheeling   
around. 

"Shit." 

"Got that right, runt. I'm gonna sheeeeshkebab your ass, you silly bugger.   
MmmM! Open wide, motherfucker." 

Logan tensed carefully, his height made even less impressive by the crouch   
into which he eased almost subconsciously as soon as he turned to find   
himself facing the Coil gunner and being flanked by two others. Probably the   
Kalashnikov guy and the armor-piercing, the thought didn't linger as he   
observed carefully the man in front of him, letting his face assume the all   
too familiar expression. He had realized the effect of the snarl on his   
opponents long ago; truth to be told sometimes he wondered what was more   
effective, it or the claws. "Boy, what do you think the chances are that   
you'll light me before I get to you and open you up like a can of peas?" 

-Snikt- 

The ridiculously oversized semblance of an elephant rifle that was the Coil   
trembled slightly as the man holding it let out a short laugh. 'Guess my   
Russian is still up to snuff, after all.' 

"Fair, old man. What do you think, Boris? Something along those lines?" 

"Yeah. I'm thinking fair to average. But that trick with the knives from the   
hand was impressive, I gotta admit. Oleg?" 

"Just fry the fucker already, will you? We still got his friend to deal   
with. Fuckin' comedians." 

The Coil trembled again and Logan tensed, ready to make one last desperate   
attempt. 

"Say good night, shorty." 

"Why? Are you leaving somewhere? Without my good bye kiss? That's it. I   
don't think we should see each other anymore." Armen was barely visible, the   
slim Georgian safely hidden by the huge bulk of Ruchenko. From what Logan   
could make out in the first shocked seconds following his friend's   
appearance, Armen was sporting an impressive black eye and looked to be   
heavily favoring his right side. Ruchenko was working on a shiner of his own   
and was glaring balefully, dripping blood from his split lip and mangled   
nose onto the white of his suit. He limited himself to glaring however;   
apparently judging himself not fast enough to beat the two guns Armen was   
currently brandishing. Brandishing with obvious skill, but what was much   
scarier with obvious relish and hope of using them given half a chance or   
reason. 

His tone lost the acidic quality and went gunmetal flat as he looked atthe   
Coil gunner, keeping himself firmly behind Ruchenko, "Put it down." His eyes   
darted for a second to the duo flanking Logan and he gestured with the gun   
in his right hand, "You too. Cannons down. Hands up. Now." 

Logan raised an eyebrow at the dirty-blond man in front of him and let the   
snarl melt slowly into a nasty smile. "Funny how these things turn   
sometimes, eh, bub?" 

The pause stretched as the trio exchanged glances, visibly weighing the   
situation. Finally, cursing unintelligibly under his breath, Armen poked   
Ruchenko in the head, the gun-barrel making an audible thud as it came in   
contact with the skull. "Explain the situation to them. Put it in the   
perspective." 

The big man snarled something and threw a venomous look over his shoulder,   
barking at his man without even looking if his order would be followed, "Do   
it, Ivan. Do it, I said!" 

Logan felt more than saw the eyes of the other two anchor on the guy. Ivan   
was sweating visibly, the oversized butt of the Coil tightly gripped under   
his arm in a standard position, his lower lip whitening as he gritted his   
teeth. He looked back at Logan, and X-Man was certain he noted a little   
desperation in his eyes. "Tell your buddy to drop the guns. Or I'll fry you,   
I swear I will." 

Almost detachedly Logan felt his lips part in a grin. Armen was less   
reserved, his snort clearly audible and reverberating through the space.   
"Genius? What exactly were you going to do BEFORE? By the Prophet's beard -   
you're one dumb.... Drop the Coil!" 

Ivan's tongue licked out, swiping the drop of sweat off his upper lip and   
his hand moved hesitantly, his lack of composure resulting in telegraphing a   
myriad of signals, betraying his intentions. 

"Don't even think about it, kid. You ain't that good. And if you singe your   
boss by accident, I don't think you'll get that Christmas bonus." 

Ruchenko's eyes almost disappeared in a calculating squint but his voice was   
calm and even as he added his support to Logan, "Do it, Vanya. There's no   
choice." 

The kid hesitated for another second... and Logan almost let out an   
explosive breath of relief when he finally kneeled, putting the Coil on the   
floor and stapling his hands behind his head. The Canadian mutant finally   
abandoned his crouch, sheathing his claws and backing up to put the other   
two shooters in his line of vision. It was a lost op on their part and from   
what he'd seen up to this point he felt sure that they were professional   
enough to recognize the fact. But. There is always a but. So he backed up   
slowly, making sure not to interfere with Armen's line of fire. 

The faint click of the released clip was all that warned him and he winced   
in advance, still almost missing Armen's left arm twitching and the suddenly   
deafening sound of the shot. The AK clattered down first; its owner toppled   
over slowly, a faintly surprised look on his face; his right hand still   
clutching the clip. His eyes, already losing life, met Logan's and for a   
second time froze... exploding back in reality as the dead man's head hit   
the floor. 

As if to compensate for that pause, everything seemed to speed up, as Armen   
went flying, the elbow of Ruchenko sending him sprawling, Ivan going for the   
Coil and the red dot suddenly blinking back into existence streaking toward   
Armen. Ruchenko's face opened in a scream of command, but for some reason no   
sound reached Logan's ears as the red haze filled his eyes and the thumping   
roar of pounding blood thundered in his ears. 

As the fog of battle rage cleared, Oleg was lying in a fetal position at his   
feet, clutching his arm, his mouth in a shocked 'o'. His glassy stare seemed   
to be fixed in an unbelieving stare, his eyes unable to leave the sight of   
his palm cleaved in half and bleeding profusely. His rifle in Logan's hands,   
the metal of the trigger feeling cool against his finger and Ivan frozen,   
one hand inches from the Coil... the red dot unnaturally still in the middle   
of his forehead. 

Armen wiped the blood from his mouth, spat and almost absently kicked   
Ruchenko behind the ear. "Vitali... I think we need to talk." 

*** 

"Are you willing to stake your life on this?" 

Vazhin fought the impulse to rub his temples, resigned instead to accept the   
swiftly coming migraine. Concentrating on the latest in the barrage of   
questions, he smiled humorlessly. 

"No. I wouldn't stake my much overdue and meager salary on the outcome of   
American elections, much less my life. But I am fairly confident that Kelly   
will lose. Florida is never democratic and, after San Francisco's debacle,   
California is in no mood for moderates. Steel Mill Corridor and some of the   
South will support Kelly because his policies on unfair advantage of mutants   
in the industrial marketplace are exactly what they want to hear, but   
without California the Democrats won't carry the College." 

"Forget the Americans! We can live with either. What I want to know is what   
do you intend to do about the gang war that's tearing the City apart. Hm?"   
The short balding man with sharp features cut in unceremoniously and wagged   
the fat finger self-importantly toward Alexei. 

Vazhin bit down on irritation, only a little amused by the look of contempt   
that flashed in General Golub's eyes as he threw a brief glance toward the   
new speaker. 

"Me? I'm afraid you're confused. Oh, I wouldn't dream of interfering in   
what is clearly the jurisdiction of my colleagues from MVD (Ministry of   
Internal Security - equivalent to the FBI). As I remember it was you, Mr.   
Reikov who explained very carefully to me that it was agencies such as   
mine... how did you put it.... ah, yes, 'getting uppity' that contributed   
greatly to downfall of our great country. I love my country, Mr. Reikov. And   
you explained it all very thoroughly. Just before you cut our budget. I   
fully intend to take your advice to heart and 'keep my behind in my own   
backyard'." 

"Fine! MVD will be more than enough to take care of that scum. They would   
have put them down weeks ago, if you hadn't screwed up the Neo operation.   
Those are their weapons floating out there! Do you know how many men lost   
their lives due to your incompetence?" The fat little man was seething, a   
bit of spittle shining in the corner of his mouth. 

13. 13 men dead. And three in critical, you fat pig. 

"I beg your pardon. But I quite vividly remember 6 memos I sent to you.   
Explaining in minute detail that due to the second round of cut backs and   
reshuffling of large parts of my personnel to other agencies I have   
insufficient resources to conclusively solve the Neo problem. If I remember   
correctly you mentioned something along the lines of not having the time to   
hold my hand and after refusing to grant my request for MVD and OMON   
(Russian equivalent of SWAT) support instructed your secretary to stop   
taking my calls." 

Something ugly reared in Reikov's eyes, disappearing swiftly, and Vazhin   
smiled coldly, careful not to let his true feeling show. 

'You didn't really think I was just going to stand here and let you buttfuck   
me, did you?' 

"And I was right! You've been coddled enough. Spending money like water.   
When I pressed you and refused to listen to your whining you somehow managed   
even without all the extra support." Reikov's hands, that were widely   
gesticulating a moment ago, had now disappeared under the table. A futile   
attempt in this room, where the wish to hide what they or perhaps their   
faint tremble might betray was a sign in itself. Neither was it lost on most   
that the MVD head was effectively cornered into admitting the expertise and   
efficiency of Vazhin. 

"I have an advantage of being in service longer than most people. Over that   
time I developed a number of useful contacts. It was these contacts that   
enabled me to bring in... outside resources to deal with the Neo." 

Vazhin shrugged and spread his arms slightly in a typically Slavic gesture. 

"But due to lack of cooperation from other agencies and severe manpower   
shortage in my own, we were unable to process the confiscated evidence -   
including large stocks of advanced armaments - immediately. Before I could   
arrange for suitable solution, it was insisted that the handling of these   
goods was to be taken over by several other organizations. I can provide   
documented evidence which accounts for the full inventory of the confiscated   
material while in my custody. I am afraid that our struggle with corruption   
in the ranks of local law enforcement still continues." 

"With varying success." Marenko, the former governor of Novgorod, put in   
sotto voce, clearly enjoying the situation to the extreme, smiling   
angelically into Reikov's glare. 

Vazhin kept his silence diplomatically. 

Golub spoke again, his basso extinguishing the whispering conversations   
among the others. "You're suggesting that the present situation is not   
brought about by Neo themselves but only their tech. In the wrong hands." 

The general's words not being formed as a question but rather as a statement   
of fact, Vazhin settled for simply inclining his head in confirmation. 

Golub's fingers drummed out a brief march on the table. "A bunch of   
cutthroats, even with Neo weaponry, should not prove a match for MVD."   
He looked at Alexei squarely. 

"Not ordinarily, no. I'm afraid there are several complicating factors in   
this situation, general." Vazhin tensed inside. This was it. If he managed   
this right... He formed his answer carefully, wary not to excuse MVD's   
failure. "The man leading these 'cutthroats' has been identified as Vasiliy   
Andreyevich Parkov, former major of our Armed Forces in the branch of State   
Security. A very talented individual with supreme understanding of the   
measures the State will take to apprehend him. His organization is staffed   
with some of the people that he brought with him out of service. He also   
recruited others." Vazhin paused for a second but decided that elaboration   
was unnecessary. The financial and political troubles of the early nineties   
saw many spetsnaz veterans leave for much more lucrative careers in the   
private sector. The majority chose legal careers, their talents and   
expertise invaluable in bodyguard and security services. 

Others brought their deadly craft into less lawful ventures. The pool of   
such men was further swelled by the veterans of Afghanistan, or 'afgantsi'   
as they were more commonly known. Changed by the conflict, ill fitting into   
peaceful society. At the same time as the government lost those men, the   
criminal world suddenly acquired a sharp edge of hard and experienced   
professionals. Only now, almost a decade later, a balance was starting to   
shift slowly into State's favor. 

All these facts were hardly unknown to the men facing him now, Vazhin   
thought grimly. "It has also come to my attention that while Mr. Parkov is a   
relative newcomer to the arena of organized crime, he is fortunate enough to   
enjoy significant financial and political support." 

"Who?" Suddenly Golub abandoned all pretence of disinterest, leaning in   
sharply, the direct gaze cold and demanding. A number of other faces around   
the table too lost all veneer of boredom, focusing sharply on Vazhin. A   
chill of apprehension flared briefly through the colonel as, for the   
briefest of moments, these immaculately dressed and behaved men revealed   
themselves, suddenly and forcibly reminding him of nothing less than a pack   
of velociraptors. Hungry velociraptors. 

The image scalding his mind, it was perhaps the hardest thing for him to   
stand straight, meet their eyes directly and say without a hint of doubt or   
hesitation in his voice. "I have failed to discover that as of yet." 

The tension held for another palpable moment before finally easing off.   
Reikov sneered and opened his mouth, only to clamp it shut as the man at the   
head of the table cleared his throat faintly. 

Vladimir Dorogov smiled gently and stood up, pushing his chair back with an   
audible floor-scraping sound. Leaning forward he placed his hands firmly on   
the table and nodded, catching most of the eyes in the room. "Very well.   
Gentlemen, I want to thank you all for convening on such short notice, I   
believe this has proved to be a highly informative afternoon. And I wouldn't   
dream of wasting any more of your valuable time. Good day." 

Marenko commented again, too soft for Alexei to overhear, but apparently not   
for Dorogov who flashed the latter a quick grin. Vazhin's eyes narrowed a   
fraction, as the lamplight caught the president's, freezing one specific   
moment in time. It was perhaps the third time Vazhin had seen him smile.   
Genuinely, letting an expression reach the eyes, and having no subtle   
undertones of mocking light or malice. He nodded himself, committing the   
instance to memory. Just another brushstroke in an intricate, complex and   
elusive process of discovering the true face of the man who sat at the head   
of the table. 

The gathering broke up swiftly after that, people filing out of the room in   
pairs and small clumps, talking animatedly or whispering. "General. A moment   
of your time?" Golub paused, nothing in the bronze mask of his face   
betraying whatever surprise or apprehension he might have felt. Approaching   
him, Dorogov clasped his shoulder and whispered something, pausing only to   
turn around and fix his eyes on Vazhin as the latter moved toward the door.   
"You, too, Colonel. I would like to ask you a couple of questions." 

"Yes, sir." 

Prudently moving back, so that both of the conversationalists could be   
absolutely sure that he wasn't in a position to eavesdrop, Vazhin bit the   
inside of his cheek, fighting the sudden itch in his dead eye. It would not   
do to take off the patch and scratch it right now, not at all. 

The hushed conversation continued for several minutes, the general towering   
over Dorogov like a sycamore over an oak sapling. And yet nothing in the   
overall effect suggested to an outside observer that the smaller man was or   
even looked intimidated. Looking down at the president and even dwarfing   
him, Golub still looked only slightly bigger than his part, a subordinate.   
No question as to who held the power in this room. 

Suddenly the general's expressionless face cracked slightly and the blue   
eyes flickered, almost imperceptibly toward Vazhin. A second later he   
nodded, saluted stiffly and left. 

Living, Alexei and Dorogov alone. 

Dorogov, stood with his back to Vazhin for another moment, scribbling   
something in his pad. Eventually he sighed and, shaking his hand, apparently   
slightly cramped now, he turned around, smiling ruefully. "You'd think that   
by now I'd get a hang of paperwork. God knows, I get enough practice." 

"Yes, sir." 

The blond man's grin weakened and for a moment Alexei could have sworn he   
saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes. Even if that was true, it passed   
quickly enough as Dorogov turned away from him again and walked back to his   
chair. "I was impressed with your report, Colonel. With severely limited   
resources you have managed to achieve a result almost as satisfactory as   
either FSB or GRU. Not a perfect job, but as I've said... I recognize the   
external constraints that you're subject to." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"Yes. You're an exceptionably able man, Alexei Mikhailovitch. But that's   
hardly news. You've proven as much, again and again." 

Dorogov paused before his chair, clasping his hands behind his back. Still   
not facing Vazhin, he whistled softly and shook his head. "I know what   
you're doing, of course. It's painfully obvious. And.. well, I don't blame   
you. Reikov is corrupt. Worse, he's an imbecile." The president of the   
Russian Federation finally turned around, fixing Alexei with cold blue eyes.   
"He also doesn't take me seriously. Do you?" 

Hell yes. 

"Hell yes, sir." 

"That's good. That's very wise." Vladimir Dorogov smiled thinly and went   
back to pacing the room again, the rolled up piece of paper drumming against   
his leg. "Now. You might wonder why I allow Reikov and his breed into my   
Cabinet. But I doubt that. Prove me right, Colonel. Impress me. Tell me the   
reason." 

Welcome to Big Time. 

"Oligarchs, sir. You don't have a choice." 

Dorogov's pacing slowed for a second, as he stumbled, but resumed almost   
immediately. "Do continue, Colonel." 

Vazhin moistened his suddenly dry lips, thinking furiously. The situation   
was hardly secret. The sudden, almost overnight shift from the march along a   
socialist highway toward communistic paradise to a market economy resulted   
in predictable economic chaos. With most of the country coming up snake   
eyes. But in every game there has to be a winner. Or several. Those in   
position or with brains or guts enough to make a grab for a piece of the pie   
as the State owned industries, which basically encompassed 99 percent of   
everything, suddenly went private. Not all of them of course. But enough. Up   
for grabs. 

When the dust cleared there they were. Former ministers, or factory   
directors or bank managers or Nouveau Riche or mafiosos. With enough brains   
and hunger to see the golden opportunity. The Robber Barons of new Russia.   
Made rich beyond their wildest dreams and in control of entire chunks of the   
country's lifelines like energy or media.   
Men who would be kings. 

The Oligarchs. 

Gorbachev didn't see them coming until it was too late. They backed   
Yeltsin's reelection. And he left them alone for a while. He was busy   
holding the country together as it bled in stupefied shock. And when he did   
become aware of them growing and carving out huge empires it was too late.   
Besides their aims never directly contradicted his and in many ways they   
were as one. So a truce became a status quo. They bided their time and   
waited. And when the time was right they threw their weight behind Dorogov.   
Most of them anyway. Some protested. They wanted to back Chernomyrdin, a   
former energy minister who himself did quite well as capitalism settled in.   
But their faction lost and a former KGB man backed by Yeltsin and bankrolled   
by most of the oligarchs became the president. And they never let him forget   
who gave him the Kremlin. 

No more than 20 men, rich on a scale beyond most people's imaginations,   
aspiring to control the country from the shadows. To be the power behind the   
throne. From the fortress-like offices, protected by private security   
details, size of small armies, and the bought status of Duma delegates that   
made them exempt from criminal prosecution, they played their political   
connections and ordered the music. And so far Dorogov nodded, jumped as high   
as he was told and danced their dance. 

But Vazhin had seen the signs. This was not a man who liked to be a puppet.   
Something was in the works. 

Alexei suddenly became aware of Dorogov's stare and realized that he had let   
the pause stretch too long. Embarrassed slightly he coughed and decided to   
cut straight to it, forgetting the consequences. "Do you think you're strong   
enough to finally take them on, then?" 

Dorogov grinned. "Ah. There is that infamous Vazhin candor. And to answer   
your question - no. Not yet. That's why Reikov is where he is. Although they   
could have saddled me with someone who has at least a semblance of a   
braincell... Ah, well. Their time will come. And that's why your job is so   
important, Colonel." The grin disappeared gradually and Vazhin felt his   
blood run cold. Dorogov decided to let the mask slip and let him see his   
true face. The tiredness, the stubborn determination and, if one looked   
deeper something ugly and dangerous, the IT that every politician has in a   
far corner of his soul. The beast. The moment passed and Dorogov chained the   
beast again, letting the mask fall back in place. 

This is a good leader. Perhaps a great one, Vazhin surprised himself with a   
sudden realization. Perhaps, if anyone can, he'll be able to play both the   
army and the oligarchs and come out on top. 

"I need time, Colonel." Dorogov rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Time to push the   
tax reform through. Time to reorganize the army and clean up the bloody mess   
of our jurisprudence. And I need to muzzle the oligarchs, to give the   
Kremlin some real power back. But I need time most of all. I can't start   
anything if I am in danger of losing people's support. It's the only   
leverage I have. I am their golden boy. And I can't attack the oligarchs   
directly because any talk of complete deprivatization will spook the Western   
moneymen. We need those investors. So as you can understand, I don't relish   
the prospect of my capital city descending into fiery chaos, just now. Mmm?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Stopping at a seemingly unremarkable spot on the wall Dorogov pushed a   
hidden button and the camouflaged section disappeared, revealing a window   
overlooking Moscow. "It's there, you know. Peter's and Catherine's Russia.   
It's there - great and waiting to gleam brilliantly once again. It's there.   
We just have to clear away all this dross and crap... all the shit that   
hides it. Wash it off. We dreamt a great dream once, Alexei. And our dream   
changed the world for one shining moment. It withered, turned into a   
nightmare and died. But it was a great dream once. We forgot how it feels.   
And so we sink into this gray existence, subsisting on gray and tasteless   
fare of borrowed culture and values. We can be great again, Colonel. We can   
amaze the world once more. We just have to remember how to dream again." 

Vazhin swallowed almost painfully, trying to break the spell and fighting to   
find something to say. 

His attempts were interrupted as Dorogov suddenly turned around smiling, and   
shaking of the sudden atmosphere, "But. Back to you, Colonel. I will give   
you what you want. I will give you the opportunity to speed Reikov's   
downfall. And I will give you the chance to prove that your agency should be   
resurrected. I shall instruct FSB and others to cooperate with you fully.   
They'll ignore me and stab you in the back as soon as you let them, of   
course, but you should be able to get something out of this. You have an   
impressive intelligence network still, of your own, so I've instructed   
General Golub to help you where you need it most." Dorogov raised his right   
hand waving the rolled up piece of paper. "This authorizes a detachment of   
Omega Brigade to function under your direct command for the duration of this   
operation." 

He chuckled suddenly, as apparently Vazhin's wary suspicion became obvious.   
"Ah. Well. It's good to know that even you do not know everything. Not   
familiar with Omega Brigade yet? I assure you, that will change. You know   
General Golub's reputation and I assume you researched his career, ne?" 

Vazhin frowned, looking for the hidden point of the question. "A capable   
soldier. Recommended by his officers early and recruited into spetsnaz.   
Served through Afghanistan with distinction, from the very beginning.   
Participated in the drop on Kabul and taking of the palace." A legendary   
operation that, when Alfa commandos and KGB spetsnaz were dropped in advance   
of the invasion and in a matter of hours secured the palace, eliminated the   
current ruler and most of his security detail, took the airport and held   
their positions until the reinforcements arrived. Suffering only a single   
casualty. Vazhin shook the stray ruminations off and furrowed his brow;   
"During the Kabul drop he caught the eye of the then Alfa commander -   
Colonel Karpuknin. Who groomed him through the rest of the war." 

Dorogov nodded "And after. In fact they're still on very good terms." 

Alexei's eyes narrowed slightly. Karpuknin, a not so minor legend in his own   
right, was a 52-year old General now with solid contacts in the community of   
Russo-Afghan veterans, for whom he served as spokesperson frequently. 

Dorogov smiled and cast his eyes ceilingward. "Yes. Very capable man, our   
general. He even impressed Major Boyarinov in his time. Do you remember the   
Major?" 

Vazhin's suspicion hardened into something much more tangible. Major   
Boyarinov had led the detachment of KGB's Section 8 during the self-same   
Kabul operation. Section 8 - Department Eight - Vosmerka, the infamous part   
of the bureau that supplied the personnel for 'active response'. I. E.   
special ops. 

Dorogov's smile widened slightly, showing fangs. "See, the good major and I   
had a talk some time ago. It was high time, I decided to finally start that   
military reform. And what better way to start than with our sadly neglected   
'elite forces.' General Golub agreed wholeheartedly." 

Vazhin swallowed weakly. 

"Yes. Modern Alfa and Vympel and Vytiaz and the rest of our Special Forces   
are not what they once were. For many reasons. Thus the Omega Brigade was   
born. And the good general's clout and contacts helped immensely. To find   
those who would train, recruit, reinstill the old traditions and esprit de   
corps. And we spared no expense in this at least. It's hardly up to the   
numerical standards of old. Only 1500 at the moment. But these are the   
absolute best of old and new. Those we were able to lure back or recruit   
outright. And we continue still. From what I'm given to understand the size   
is expected to swell to 5000 by the end of the year." 

Dorogov's hand suddenly moved with a speed hardly believable of this   
seemingly harmless man, sliding the piece of paper across the table's length   
toward Vazhin. "You are not getting money. Well..." Dorogov chuckled   
humorlessly, "Not more than necessary. Wouldn't do for you to go under right   
in the middle of this. But the bare minimum - to keep you above red line, no   
more. And you're not getting the best of the best - I need them myself. You   
get the 'prospects.' The ones currently retraining. And you're not getting a   
lot of them." 

Vazhin slowly reached for the paper and, without lifting it off the table,   
straightened the rolled up sheet and read the words. 

Thirty?! That's it? 

Cold and furious realization for letting himself be deceived started to   
uncoil in the pit of his stomach. He's trying to end me. 

"And I'm not setting you up for a fall. Thirty of these men should be   
enough. They're quality." Dorogov sounded faintly amused. "All of them   
blooded veterans. Retrained. The only drawback is that they are keshmesh.   
Drawn from a bunch of places and units. Haven's seen action together yet.   
You'll shake them down for me." 

Great. Just fucking wonderful. 

But the morose thought didn't come naturally. The first reaction was fierce   
content. And Vazhin wasn't at all sure that he hid it adequately from his   
president. Whose amusement deepened. 

"They should be enough if used right. Trust me." Dorogov finally sunk into   
his chair steeppling his hands and narrowing those hard, cold brilliant   
eyes. "I know that Reikov's idiocy is not really responsible for this Parkov   
person's possession of Neo weapons. I saw the records. Not enough was stolen   
to account for... " Dorogov didn't finish, eyes growing colder still. And   
Vazhin found the sight strangely satisfying. This one actually cared about   
causalities. 

"In any case - he is getting the ammo somewhere. The theft of confiscated   
arms is a cover. No more. There are Neo in my city, colonel. I would like   
you to find them for me." 

"Yes, sir." 

The cold stare did not abate. "And do it right. I don't want this getting   
monumentally ugly. Don't go on your own private crusade against Mafia.   
Parkov, Neo... and their 'hand' in the Kremlin. That's it for now." 

Vazhin nodded and let a bit of hesitation show on his face. "Sir..." 

"Speak." 

"I see that you're putting much faith into General Golub. And I respect the   
man myself but..." 

The President let escape another chuckle, "... but what if he's the 'hand'?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Dorogov's chuckle died. "Hear me well, Colonel. I appreciate that you did   
not attempt to frame Reikov's in connection with this mess, without having   
facts. Did not attempt to play in the muddied waters and roil them further   
in order to ruin a competitor. And I realize that you're not casting   
suspicion on the general, out of selfish reasons. I realize these things and   
they speak well for you. I also realize that I am asking in large part for   
you to make bricks without straw." He chuckled again, a little bitterly.   
"The Russian way, ne? Among the other things however I'll ask of you this -   
trust me." 

Yeah. Right. Pull another one, that one's got bells on it. 

Dorogov smiled, a small and somewhat sad expression. "Trust me on this at   
least, Alexei. Golub isn't the man. He wants power, of course. But he knows   
his duty and for now I'm his only way to rebuild the army. He's faithful for   
now and when he stops he'll come for me in the open." 

...and I will stomp him into the ground bloody and broken, went unspoken but   
tacitly understood. 

"Get me Neo, Colonel. And do it fast." 

Vazhin nodded curtly and saluted automatically before leaving the room. 

As he slid along the corridors toward the exit, his president continued   
sitting motionless for several moments before sighing deeply and speaking   
softly, "We came up together, you know. Vazhin and me. Though the Agency.   
Just went different ways after a bit. He got unlucky and I didn't. But he   
keeps coming back. And will continue until they put him down. They don't   
call him Mongoose for nothing." 

If Vazhin had been able to see the room he'd exited shortly before, he would   
have cursed long and bitterly, condemning himself for a fool and amateur.   
Even so, eventually Alexei would wonder about the fact the Dorogov was alone   
in the room. He would wonder and nourish the suspicion. He would scornfully   
throw away the stray supposition of trust. And eventually he would guess the   
truth. Cool and rational by that time he would take it calmly. And these   
suspicions would start to grow even as he approached the elevator, some ways   
from the room, even now. They would be interrupted however as he passed   
Reikov on his way. Passed him and continued on his way, until driven by an   
impulse of sheer childishness he paused and turning around very deliberately   
winked at the startled bureaucrat. And smiled. As a recently sated leopard   
would smile at a fat hyena who's laughing, absolutely sure of its safety in   
the middle of its pack. Safe - for now. Potential for future? 

Vazhin entered the elevator and pressed the ground floor button. His smile   
held as the door closed and his own reflection looked back at him. 

As a leopard might look at its own reflection in a river's water, listening   
to hyenas laugh at a distance. Safe for now. The hunter is fed. 

Potential for future? 

Lunch. 

And Vazhin grinned coldly again. Content. 

But if on that day he had been able to see inside the room as the shadows   
along one of the corners seemed to part and a slim, dark man emerged he   
would damn himself for a simpleton. 

President's bodyguard looked at the door and raised an inquisitive eyebrow   
"You think he'll take 'em?" 

Dorogov grinned, a wolfish and remorseless expression. "Vazhin? Understaffed   
and underfinanced? Against the most powerful Mafia baron in the city armed   
by and supported by Neo and some as of yet invisible political powermonger?" 

The smile thinned. "Oh, those sorry bastards are fucked." 

*** 

"Shuddap! And getcher ass down, fool!" The gunman winced and sunk his nose   
into the floor, eyes tightly shut, hands firmly on his head. Logan didn't   
blame him a bit. Armen was pacing the warehouse, in what appeared to be a   
frothing fury, swearing in Farsi -the possibilities of Russian and Arabic   
exhausted by now. In addition to which the little Georgian was still toting   
both guns. And still looked more than eager and willing to send someone to   
Paradise or the nearest equivalent. 

The Canadian X-Man shook his head and returned to examining the confiscated   
weapons, while carefully rolling up his pants' leg. He was wrong, the   
Kalashnikovs the laid at his feet were not 47s. He whistled softly. "Damn.   
101s. They didn't even finish getting this to the army yet. And I'm not even   
talking about the Coil." He glanced at Ruchenko, who was sitting sullenly in   
the corner, holding his head. 

"Nice deal you got going for yourself here, bub. Pity if you'll have to die   
here in this stinking hole, and not get to enjoy the fruits of your labor. " 

Ruchenko's eyes narrowed into hostile slits and he spat, missing Logan just   
by inches. "If I talk I'm dead anyway." 

Armen growled something completely unintelligible from the sidelines and one   
of the gunmen appeared to have fainted. Logan smiled grimly. "There are ways   
and ways of dying, Mr. Ruchenko." He finally finished fiddling with his   
pants and slowly carefully straightened his leg. Still splattered with blood   
and mud, the wounds have already healed. He sighed deeply and let his claws   
out. Ignoring a small gasp from one of the goons he sighed again and   
gritted his teeth. 

"Oh! Oh, God!" 

"Bozhemoi..." Ivan forgot about Armen standing behind him and crisscrossed   
himself, his eyes wide and unbelieving fixed on Logan as the latter,   
snarling silently, forced the claw deeper into his ankle. The soft,   
plopping, ugly sounds of flesh being cut and blood pumping filled the small   
cleared area amidst the rubble for seconds until Logan grunted and   
carefully, tantalizingly, torturously slowly removed the claw with a crimson   
dripping object on the end. 

He grunted again, this time in satisfaction and with a negligent flick of   
the hand sent the small object flying. The remnant of an AK bullet hit the   
floor with a soft clang and continued to roll for seconds until stopping in   
front of Ruchenko. The latter's eyes seemed to be glued to the bullet, but   
eventually he swallowed sharply and raised a suddenly pale face to meet   
Logan's impassive stare. "Well? Do we talk?" 

And inevitably they did. Ruchenko eventually shrugged off the shock, and   
proved to be a gold mine of information. Apparently the big man realized   
that at this point his best bet was on Armen and Logan taking out his boss,   
before the latter found out about the betrayal. "So you see, he gave me the   
suit. I got 15 percent. I'm just a middle man." 

Logan rubbed the day old stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "All right. What   
about the Coil? Why'd you have heavy artillery here, for a regular buy?" 

Ruchenko sighed and squinted tiredly. "I got jumped a couple of weeks ago.   
Muti.. I mean mutants. One was like you - had a healing factor going. So I   
invested in some better hardware." 

Logan narrowed his eyes. Something seemed off in the black marketeer's eyes   
and stance. "What else? Don't hold out on me now, Vitali." 

Ruchenko sighed again, "All right, all right. The client? The one that put   
the suit up for sale? He's got a partner. A couple of days after I sold the   
suit, his people came looking for me. Wanted to pull the item off the   
market. Got REALLY upset when I told them it was too late. Wanted to know   
who bought it and all." Ruchenko's voice rose an octave in honest   
indignation, "As if I'd betray my client's confidentiality! That's not the   
way Vitali Ruchenko does business!" 

Armen's face assumed a slightly pained expression and he coughed, a soft and   
embarrassed sound. Ruchenko didn't notice, having gotten into the spirit of   
the story. 

"So they offer me a deal. If I want to continue operating in the city -   
gotta flag the item. Told me if anyone came looking and asking about it or   
where it came from... You know." Ruchenko gestured around the torn up   
warehouse. "So when Armen here called me... I got my boys. But since those   
guys that came seemed serious, I figured so would be the people they want to   
put on ice. Hence the Coil." He sniffed. "Much good it did." 

Logan chuckled softly and got up, his leg still a little stiff but holding   
his weight. "All right. Now all you gotta do is give me their names and   
whereabouts and I'm outta your life." 

Ruchenko squinted, his eyes again almost disappearing behind his eyebrows.   
"See. That's going to be a problem, friend." 

Logan's face lost all humor and he regarded the large man with a stony   
hawk-like patience. The latter shrugged, raising his hands, "Hey! Hey. No   
need for all that. "I am not disclosing the name of the client and that's   
final. You can castrate me if you want. Do it. I ain't giving you the name."   
He sniffed again. "Can't. Against my ethics." 

Logan's face darkened. And he made another step forward, but Armen stopped   
him. "Never mind, kazo. I know who the client is." Ruchenko raised his   
eyebrow, and Dumbadze shrugged smiling. "Yeah. Took me long enough, but you   
dropped enough hints." 

Ruchenko nodded and massaged his head again. "Are we done then?" 

Logan's glared at him and his Georgian friend. "What about this mysterious   
partner of his?" Armen shrugged and spread his arms. 

Logan focused his glare on Ruchenko but the letter simply mirrored Armen's   
gesture. "Swear to God, no clue who the guy is. Honest injun." His eyes slid   
over the corpse lying not far from where he was sitting and he sighed, the   
infinite sadness seemingly permeating the sound. "oh God. Borya... What am I   
going to tell Masha..." 

Logan stared at him for another moment, before silently turning around and   
heading for the doors. Behind him Armen patted Ruchenko's shoulder, "Sorry   
about how this turned out, Vitali." 

"Ah. Nichevo. That's business, ne?" 

Armen nodded, and holstering his guns, made as if to follow Logan. 

"Ey." He turned around, giving Ruchenko a quizzical look. 

"Give me a call when this is over. I think you were right about that   
Kazakhstan venture." 

*** 

The road was empty as far as the eye could see. His shoes hit the asphalt   
but the hushed sound would disappear almost immediately, stolen by the warm   
wind and carried away along with dust and dry grass. He walked on. 

His thoughts danced erratically, jostling each other out of the way, fast   
and empty. His mind unfocused, cataloguing the small details around him but   
its grasp too slow to concentrate on anything tangible. He walked on. 

The trench flapped against his legs, long and heavy, occasionally being   
tugged away by the wind only to come back and curl protectively around him   
moments later. Strangely, he didn't feel the undue heat. He walked on. 

The sun frozen in the middle of the sky, a golden, unmoving disc. Its rays   
comfortably warm on his face, slightly irritating stabs to his eyes forcing   
him to shield them as he looked ahead, toward the horizon. The arid soil   
surrounding the highway. The broken white line painted in the middle,   
separating the road. He walked on. 

It didn't seem out of the ordinary when the bird appeared. As the black form   
approached and grew, he detachedly recognized it as a raven. And it did not   
seem at all out of place as it circled him thricely before landing lightly   
on his right shoulder. He walked on. 

The small, sharp talons, that didn't puncture his trench but still made   
themselves felt as the raven shifted on his shoulder. Its beak brushing   
slightly against his ear, its wing ruffling his hair. The odd, soft   
sensation of feathers on his face. He walked on. 

And it did not seem at all unexpected when out of the corner of his eye a   
dot appeared, behind him and to the left. As it grew closer, subtly, slowly   
morphing into a shape of man, the shoulder length straight black hair and   
leather trenchcoat flapping in the wind. His bare feet barely touching the   
ground, softly measuringly cutting the distance between them until the man   
finally fell into step with him. He walked on. 

The quiet not-quiet of the road and the desert enveloped him in an almost   
tangible blanket of warmth and security. The road, straight and empty, his   
companions at ease with silence. No goal or purpose. Just the wind, the road   
and the desert. He walked on. 

The first words came softly and intricately wove themselves into the   
pattern, stepping just in time between the wind and leaping gracefully out   
of the sun's way. The dance continued, tugging them in and making them   
welcome. Not a detail out of place, a strange, disturbing kind of peace, of   
sleeping wakefulness and weird beauty. His thoughts fast and slippery and   
too many. He walked on. 

"So you finally made it, brother. I'd almost given up. Almost." 

The carefree grin joined the pattern and the longhaired man danced lightly   
to the side and back, the easy laugh adorning the pattern. His arms wide,   
palms up to the sun. The sparkling almond eyes, the Manchu mustache, the   
faintly Oriental features of the face, the bare feet striking the warm   
asphalt. The raven shifted yet again and gazed at the barefoot dancer with   
faint disapproval. Something caught his attention in the distance, and he   
cupped his hand over his eyes, squinting. He walked on. 

"You finally made it. I like you, brother. I didn't think I would. But I do.   
You got game." 

The turn defined the scene, as the road bent lithely and the sound of the   
words chased after a stray cloud. The distance and time wavered, losing any   
meaning or importance. He cupped his eyes again, as the building suddenly   
loomed large by the wayside. The pattern shifted and sung to him and walking   
was a wrong note to hit. So he stopped. 

"Here we are then. The happy family." The leather coat whispered something   
as the long-haired man danced away, leaping easily on the fence and walking   
on the rim, still laughing soundlessly, the white teeth gleaming brightly.   
The raven shifted yet again, the cold of his beak comforting against Pete's   
cheek. 

The wind came back stronger suddenly, and the sound of his own name pulsed   
in his head like another heart, the pattern changed subtly yet again. 

"See. That's my bro. You show 'em how, Pete." The laugh washed over him,   
easy, rich and full. The man, his brother, his other half still stood atop   
the fence, balancing himself with outstretched arms, his coat and hair   
blowing in the wind, behind him and to the left. The woman sitting along the   
fence suddenly became important, a detail, a twist in the puzzle -   
impossible to overlook. Silent, her eyes hidden behind simple sunglasses.   
Leaning against the fence, one leg under the other, red hair flowing in   
graceful lines, rising and falling in the wind, brushing her red leathers.   
She was important. A part of the pattern. A twist of the design, not to be   
overlooked, he suddenly knew. 

His brother laughed again and sunk into a crouch, still perched atop the   
fence suddenly looking like a giant raven. He leaned forward slightly and   
whispered something into Red Lady's ear. She did not react at first. 

Time flowed around them. Thick as honey, almost thick enough to taste. He   
looked around. Taking in the building itself. A simple wooden church.   
White-paint, high steeple. His eye took in the empty yard and the rusted   
tractor to the side. 

She slowly raised her head, and even through sunglasses he could see her   
eyes. Deep and ancient, young and restless, calm and hers. They met each   
other's soul somewhere in between. 

His brother laughed again. The timbre changing a little, imperceptibly,   
unmistakably. The pattern shifted and expanded, contracted, grew and died.   
Danced. 

They were by the tractor. She sitting cross-legged on the hood, leaning   
forward just a bit, her head propped up by one of the hands. The other   
absently playing with her companion's hair as he sat by the front wheels. 

She seemed sad. And white. Her pants were white; the jacket emblazoned with   
a British flag seemed unimportant somehow. Her hair was blonde and careless.   
She was looking at him, a discarded cigarette, unlit, lying by her foot. She   
was looking at him, a bit sadly and seriously. Her fingers, long and slender   
and strong, dancing slowly through the black hair of the man. 

A man. In rumpled suit and white shirt with no tie. The wrinkle lines about   
the corners of his mouth, a cigarette dangling from his lips. A coat lying   
in a forgotten heap. He was looking at him, the black hair almost not quite   
in his eyes, ruffled by the pale, long fingers. Serious, silent eyes. A bit   
tired. 

The raven prodded him slightly reminding him, warning him, prompting him.   
The pattern shifted again and was calling. The road waited. The wind came   
back and danced around his feet, with dust and dry grass, harrying him. He   
nodded slightly to them. Adding something to the pattern, something   
unplanned and his. A little twist. A brushstroke to the design that seemed   
appropriate. 

His brother laughed again. Happily surprised, amused, a rich, warming sound. 

He walked on. 

His raven on his shoulder. 

The road was empty as far as the eye could see. His shoes hit the asphalt   
but the hushed sound would disappear almost immediately, stolen by the warm   
wind and carried away along with dust and dry grass. He walked on. 

The trench flapped against his legs, long and heavy, occasionally being   
tugged away by the wind only to come back and curl protectively around him   
moments later. He walked on. 

They stayed in the churchyard. He did not see them again. 

He walked on. 

*** 

The Pacrat banked sharply, eliciting cries of protest from its passengers.   
From the cabin Domino's irritated voice echoed, advising the rest where   
exactly they could put their complaints and how deep they should push them. 

Thom winced. "Damn. That's just unhygenic on so many levels." 

"She's right though." Joakim's soft musing firmly put an end to the   
grumbling. "We've got to get under the air defense radars. If they spot us   
at this point - they might not even bother asking questions." 

Tabitha shrugged and sniffed. "We've done this tons of time. And we never   
had to do no Immelmans." 

She bridled at the silence that greeted her statement, looking at Sam   
belligerently, "What? It's true! Tell 'em, Sam!" 

Guthrie shrugged, clearly uncomfortable, "yeah, it's true, tab. But.. Well.   
This was never exactly designed to go against fighters. Even when it was the   
cutting edge of technology. Now it's near obsolete. And, well..." 

Tabitha scowled darkly, knowing he was right, but unwilling to admit it.   
PacRat WAS getting a bit worn around the edges. Still... She turned to the   
window, away from the rest of the group and muttered to herself resentfully   
about the injustice of it all. 

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, not noticing Joakim's smile. The kids were   
handling it better than he thought. All of them. Considering how cramped the   
'Rat was with a dozen people and 'bare-necessities' equipment piled into it,   
he was half-afraid that temper would get the better of them during the long   
trip. He cast his eyes around the crowded cabin. Most were napping; odd   
seeing such old-soldiers habit as catching the little bit of sleep whenever   
you can, is so these kids. So young. He smiled again a little ruefully. He   
was not 35 yet himself. But in this company it made him feel as old as the   
hills... His eyes stopped on Malchus and a little frown creased his brows.   
The hawk-nosed man said very little and slept throughout most of the flight.   
Maybe his years were catching up with him, Joakim chuckled silently. The   
laugh died quickly as he looked at another sleeping form that worried him   
far more. Pete had fall into a coma-like slumber several hours ago and his   
had been a fitful sleep. 

"What haunts your dreams, Peter?" Marek whispered softly, reaching over and   
tugging a blanket over his friend. "What stalks you even as you sleep?" 

He gazed at the unmoving form of Wisdom for a minute longer before turning   
away and closing his eyes. Himself trying to attempt a little rest. He never   
saw his friends move slightly, parting the dry lips. He never heard the   
barely audible whisper. And honestly, who could blame him. It was just one   
word. 

"Brother." 

*** 

Somewhere, deep inside Russia's capital city, on a balcony overlooking a   
wide prospect, a tall man stood. Smiling and gazing into the night. His   
fingers drumming absently on the rail, his grin widened as he looked into   
the darkness and saw the pattern coming together. He laughed easily, a   
lilting, soft, a rich, deep sound. "Oh, bother mine. We're going to have   
such fun."   
  



	6. The Killing Fields

Disclaimer: Most of recognizable characters belong to Marvel. No profit is being made. As always - many thanks go to my incomparable betareader and those readers that are still with me, this late in the game. Thank you. Feedback and flames are welcome.   
  
The preceding parts of the story are archived at Fonts of Wisdom   
http://home.att.net/~lubakmetyk/index.htm   
  
***   
  
Then:   
(Some quarter of a century ago, Madripoor)   
  
"So what do you think?"   
  
"Honestly?"   
  
"No. I know that honestly you're thinking about how to get in Roma Lee's pants. What do you think about this?"   
  
"Mostly I'm thinking ouch."   
  
"Well, that's helpful, Malik. Thanks. You can stop thinking now."   
  
"Give it up, Marc. You know? It's just a bad idea. Bad. There is no way to pull it off. And even worse..." The older of the two boys, sitting   
cross-legged outside the bar trailed off, dragging his hand through the   
black short hair.   
  
"What? What's worse?"   
  
"You might. You actually might pull it off."   
  
Marc, a leaner and long haired individual of 13 years grinned, teeth   
flashing as he absently blew a stubborn strand of straight black hair out of his almond shaped dark eyes. "Duh. 'Course I might." He frowned, expression somewhat pained. "I mean, of course I will. Pull it off."   
  
He glared at the skeptical look in his friend's eyes. "My plans always work sometimes!"   
  
Malik grimaced expressively and sighed. "I dunno, man. The security is shit, yeah. But that's only because only an idiot would try to rob the Reds. Remember what they did to Tau? These guys are vicious."   
  
"Pheh."   
  
Malik, with the thundering wisdom of his two extra years, scratched the tip   
of his nose and sighed again. "I don't like it."   
  
Marc let out his own explosive sigh and stared at Malik with exaggerated patience. "We owe money. We don't have money. We need money. We steal money. We pay back money. We don't owe money."   
  
I don't like it." Malik repeated stubbornly. "Like I said, what if we make it happen..." Marc grinned at the word 'we' but Malik either didn't notice or chose to ignore it. "There are no options for after. If they don't get us, their tame cops will."   
  
The backdoor of the bar banged the grimy wall of the establishment in whose vicinity the boys were squatting, making them both look. Malik grinned despite himself as the collection of garbage bags waddled out of the door, the person carrying the trash completely obscured save for the worn army boots.   
  
"O'Donnell. Working hard?" Marc sniggered softly as the bags were dropped with a considerable amount of relish, followed by a couple of epithets that were a bit strong even for LowTown's admittedly shaky standards. The large man who stood in the doorframe wore a disgusted expression as he examined his pants for stains. White shirt seemed in danger of giving, the seams straining, as he bent to wipe off the dirt. A cleanly shaven head and readily apparent and somewhat overdeveloped musculature gave Rory O'Donnell a suitably menacing appearance and, as he scowled at the two kids perched precariously on the top of the crates piled at the end of the alley, many would deem it prudent to vacate the premises of the aforementioned scowl at top speed. Malik's grin flashed as the Irish bouncer of the Princess Bar turned his stare on him. "Hey, O'Donnell. What'd ya do, this time?"   
  
"I got no idea whatcha talkin' about, laddie." O'Donnell sounded faintly injured by the suggestion.   
  
"Riiight, right." Marc elbowed his friend and winked with deliberate   
exaggeration. "It's not like he takes the trash out only when he's ticked off Il Duce for the umpteenth time."   
  
"No, no. He likes it."   
  
"Good exercise."   
  
"Fresh air." Malik nodded solemnly.   
  
"And he probably didn't like those pants anyway." Marc gestured languidly.   
  
"I know I wouldn't."   
  
"Ug-leeee."   
  
"Smartasses." Rory O'Donnell's headshake and an almost reluctant grin robbed the rumbling rebuke of its strength. "Get inside, Aisha will fix you up with some grub."   
  
Malik always liked the Princess bar. Maybe because to him the place always seemed like a perfect microcosm of Madripoor. Maybe despite it. The den of thieves and scoundrels, the dealers and gangsters, murderers and assassins, where information and drugs, booze and lives were sold side by side, an uneasy demilitarized zone where sworn enemies bought each other drinks and smiled, biding their time.   
  
Much like the island metropolis itself, the population of the bar would   
surprise the uninitiated with its rather heavy compliment of Caucasians. To the denizens of both the bar and the city it has long since ceased to be a topic of conversation. Madripoor had been one of the earliest freeports in the Pacific. Its position astride the nexus of seaborne trade routes of Southeast Asia made it the hub of commerce and piracy since time immemorial. Less than a generation after Vasco da Gama announced his arrival to the residents of Bombay with a cannonade, Portuguese galleons were anchored in Madripoor's harbor, side by side with Chinese junks.   
  
As the European Empires carved up Asia into their satrapies, the Princes of Madripoor played gracious hosts to the cutthroats and corsairs and so, when the sepoys of India rose and gambled all in a desperate attempt to win their freedom only a stone's throw aside one of the most ironic jests in history played out as the European and native pirates and thieves, acting in perfect cooperation, were beating back yet another of the innumerable attempts of the Colonialists to bring order to the Lawless Isle.   
  
The Madripoor rulers played their cards wisely and well, carefully walking the line of never being nuisance enough to warrant serious expedition by one of the Great Powers. The city grew rich. Rich enough that even the Japanese occupation and plunder of the island did not impoverish it. And as the young American power flexed its muscles after the war, new wealth was there to be made by those with the eye and the wit. Madripoor lacked neither.   
  
Of course, the distribution of the wealth was hardly equal. But that was nothing new under the sun of the island city. And in some ways the scale of Madripoor made the division far less hypocritical -- as the tall and majestic buildings of the HighTown rose, scraping the abode of the Gods, like the castles of old, the slums of the LowTown seemed all the stranger, out of place, almost of another world altogether. The division painful in its clarity. All pretense of coexistence foregone.   
  
Malik and Marc ghosted their way through the crowd filling the bar as   
O'Donnell glared his way through, parting the throngs like Moses with his bulk when the glare proved deficient. Malik saw his friends' eyes flicker to the side and scowled at him, just in time. Pickpocketing one of Hong's men was definitely not a good plan, despite the potential windfall. Marc shrugged and, blowing a quiet raspberry, jerked his hand back, falling in behind O'Donnell.   
  
"Killjoy."   
  
"Punk."   
  
O'Donnell threw the pair a warning glare before the sniping match could   
gather strength. The two quickly assumed innocent expressions, smiling   
seraphically in almost perfect unison. He narrowed his eyes and turned away elbowing one of the Williamsons' enforcers out of the way.   
  
***   
  
Busy today. Maybe the rumors of the Hongs and the Williamsons talking   
alliance wasn't just smoke and mirrors. That means one of them was planning to jump employers... trouble. He glowered another bullyboy out of his way and resisted the impulse to glance behind him, eyeing the big man with brutal and dull eyes to his right. In twenty years that's Malik... if he's lucky.   
  
No other way out of LowTown, but as a foot soldier for one of the 'barons' of the underworld. That or junkie, mugging a stray tourist for another fix. Or being knifed in a stupid brawl by the time you were eighteen. Too many dead ends, too few escape routes. The two street rats at his back were LowTown's prime exports; perhaps even more valuable than the opium Roche and Coy were pushing all across Asia.   
  
Young 'talent' almost ready to be picked and hired by those who were always is need of fresh bodies. Madripoor streets bred the hit men and button men who plied their trade across Asia, from New Deli to Ulan Bator. Rory sighed and pushed the thought away, life was what it was. And Malik was smarter than most, quicker than some. The rest was up to him. Not that he was an angel, of course. Had a wild streak that could turn him vicious and moody in a second. Couldn't have lasted without it. But not fueled by that self-destructive, all consuming anger at the world for being born like so many of other street children that roamed the Madripoor back ways like wolf packs. Hidden, submerged and always... different.   
  
O'Donnell still wondered about the reason Marc's obvious dominance,   
despite his partner's age. Not as if Malik lacked either aggressive drive or the ability... Still, Rory shrugged, whatever worked. The pair were true children of LowTown's streets, making their own way for a long time already, before Seraph took them under her wing. The proprietor of the Princess Bar, Rory reflected, had a strange affinity for strays. Rory sighed philosophically. At least these two were marginally less feral than that Canadian psycho. He shuddered slightly and covertly made the horns to ward off evil.   
  
"O'Donnell!"   
  
"Fuck." Rory's lips thinned a little as he turned toward the speaker.   
  
"You can't hide from me, you slimy bucket of pus!" The black haired man, easily as large as Rory himself, was moving through the crowd toward him with a speed that was dangerously uncommon for someone of such size.   
  
"I work here, Alvarson. What do you want?"   
  
"Your liver on a plate, you Mick bastard!" The breath stinking of garlic and alcohol made O'Donnell blink reflectively for just a moment, and that moment was all the opportunity Alvarson needed.   
  
He felt the skin parting first, all feeling and all external noise reduced to background noise for a fleeting second under that odd, expectant numbness that precedes the command being relayed by nerve endings to the brain. As if on cue pain flared brightly and hotly, and he stumbled, barely avoiding the second lunge.   
  
He felt more than saw Malik melting away from behind him, too busy to think about anything else but the trembling tip of the knife dancing only inches away from his heart.   
  
"Fight!"   
  
"Fight!"   
  
"Space! Give them space, you motherlovin' sons of bitches!"   
  
"Open that Mick up, Janos!"   
  
Even as he crouched, his arms akimbo, the left wrist and palm slick with the stream of blood running down from the cut on his bicep, O'Donnell grimaced in irritation as the fight quickly turned into a spectacle. Alvarson swept the knife up and across, but this time the Irish bouncer saw the telltale roll of shoulders moments before the attack.   
  
"Stick 'im, you dumb fuck! Don't dance with 'im!"   
  
The bar exploded in laughter, the feeble joke helped by the amount of liquor being consumed. Alvarson's eyes narrowed down into unblinking, hating slits but O'Donnell noted with growing unease that the Swede's breathing slowed and his knife hand steadied considerably as Janos swept it in slow dangerous arcs forcing Rory back.   
  
"Get inside, Rory! Take that pig-sticker of his and jam it where the sun don't shine."   
  
"I got money on you, Irish!"   
  
Alvarson lunged again, again his bulky build telegraphing his intention, but this time as O'Donnell danced away, making a grab for the Swede's wrist, the blade jumped as Janos changed hands and stabbed downward at the reaching arm.   
  
"Thass it! Thass it!!"   
  
"That's two! Skin the bastard, Jonny! "   
  
"Piece by fucking piece!"   
  
Rory bit down his natural impulse and, swallowing the pain, grinned   
contemptuously into the beady blue eyes. The bluff had the desired effect, as Janos roared with rage and charged like a maddened bull. O'Donnell threw himself to one side, swearing at himself for once again underestimating Alvarson's speed. The tenuous self-control that the Swede forced on himself had snapped and the attacks were coming in fast and savage slashes now, again forcing Rory away from closing with Janos. Worse, Alvarson did not appear to be tiring despite the frenzied pace.   
  
"Gonna cut you, Irish. Gonna cut you, you little fuck."   
  
The blade was a bluish blur and the cuts on his arms burned as the sweat trickled down, but Rory didn't dare to spare a moment and wipe his forehead.   
  
"C'mon, then. Come and get it, Jonny-boy."   
  
"Gaaaargh!" Alvarson lunged again, switching hands in mid motion and Rory growled with feral satisfaction, seeing his chance.   
  
Sway left. Step in. Lock out the instinct screaming about the insanity of running toward the knife. And now..."Lemme show you how we do it back home, you fat piece of dirt."   
  
Alvarson grunted, the rancid breath once again hitting Rory in a nauseating wave, and jerked his knife arm trying to free it from O'Donnell's iron-latch clasp. Rory bared his teeth and squeezed, trapping the Swede's other arm between his own and his right side. Alvarson grunted again, the pain contorting his features but hanging on to the knife with animal stubbornness, until Rory's forehead came down, crushing his nose. "Belfast Jig, Jonny-boy."   
  
And again Rory's head slammed down into the larger man's bleeding face,   
closing his left eye. And again. And again. Until he heard the telltale clattering sound of the dropped knife. He should have known better, he really should have. But instead he relaxed, almost imperceptibly changing his stance... just enough to give Alvarson leverage. His knee came up in a dirty but well aimed blow and for a moment Rory couldn't breathe, his muscles seizing up and his grip on the Swede growing slack.   
"Motherfucker...."   
  
"Ohhhh."   
  
"Dayaaaam!"   
  
"That's gotta hurt."   
  
Janos grunted again, pushing Rory away. "Belfast, my ass." The Swede's   
haymaker was wild, barely connecting and the pain from the punch but a   
distant echo of the earlier blow. But it was enough to send the already   
reeling O'Donnell sprawling. He crawled away, trying weakly to pull himself up, pulling down the chairs and a table cover instead as his legs refused to work. He twisted clumsily to look behind himself just in time to see Janos bend over and pick the knife. "Shit."   
  
"Gonna gut you like a sardine, Mick. Like a goddamn sardine."   
  
He would too.   
  
Rory's thoughts swirled dazedly and sluggishly as he watched the big man's approach, his eyes focusing on the glittering knife point with morbid fascination.   
  
Alvarson sniffled, dripping blood and snot, "Broke my nose. Make you beg. Gut you. Like a fuckin' sardine. Make you scream. "The low hate-filled whisper snapped the dreamlike web that had seemingly been coating Rory's brain and he lurched upwards and away from the nearing Swede. He swayed, losing his balance or a second and bumping heavily against the nearest table before propping himself up into an unsteady, half-leaning half-falling stance. Janos spat and broke into a lumbering run, knife held out in a shoulder-level rigidly outstretched arm like a pike.. "You're dead, Mick. Dead! Deagh- "   
  
"In a pig's eye, asshole."   
  
Rory blinked, dully surprised as he saw the crimson string of blood weave its way down his face. He didn't even remember hitting his head. He blinked again, shaking his head and trying dumbly to understand whether he was hallucinating or Malik really had just rocketed out of the kitchen swinging a baseball bat in a practiced two-handed grip. Alvarson snarled in pain again as Malik's bat connected with his knee for a second time and fell heavily.   
  
"That's right! Squeal, piggy! Squeal!" O'Donnell squinted in pained   
confusion as Marc Roryrialized in front of him, seemingly out of thin air, a chain held firmly in one hand, blurring into a humming steel circle as he gestured with his left, in an unmistakably obscene gesture. "Who's next, huh? Huh?! C'mon! Try it! Try it, you motherfuckers!" Marc glanced briefly over his shoulder, flashing Rory the savage, breathless grin of someone who is having too much fun to give a damn.   
  
Rory felt his legs give again and made a grab for the table as desperate as it was futile. He thudded heavily back on the floor. 'Damn. Must have hit my head worse than I thought.'   
  
He remembered suddenly that he wanted to do something about the sweat and swiped his hand numbly across his forehead, swearing as the blood smeared his forehead and the sweat stung the cut. Still the sting seemed to clear the last cobwebs and his eyes focused. He scowled at Malik, who paused for a moment to glance at him while still brandishing the bat over the cursing Janos. The scowl froze however and he stared, his mouth half opened to shout a warning.   
  
Too late.   
  
Malik's head whipped around just in time to see the Swede's knife coming straight at him. He grunted and swung, fully intending to break Alvarson's hand and be done.   
  
'Holy shit! Holy shit, this guy's fast! Holy...'   
  
"Oh crap." Malik stared blankly at the stump of the bat in his hands, the larger remnant sheared away. "Not good."   
  
Alvarson surged to his feet, the limp all the more pronounced as he went for Malik's throat.   
  
"Oh, not good."   
  
Rory gritted his teeth in grim determination and hauled himself upwards   
again, forcing himself to balance with a supreme force of will as his vision swam after the abrupt movement. He just barely saw Malik take a flying leap. The kid let the bat's hilt fly, missing Janos' head by mere inches, and dove under the table, scampering on all fours out the other side. The Swede scowled after him but turned away, spitting and assessing Marc with a measuring stare. "Beat it, street rat. He's mine."   
  
"Gotta go through me first, Gimpy."   
  
Janos spat again and cracked his neck. Flipping the knife, he caught it by the hilt and he stepped unhurriedly toward Marc, "Not a problem."   
  
O'Donnell caught the look in Marc's eyes and froze for the briefest of   
seconds. The wild and pure anticipatory gleam of a predator, seeming all the more incongruous on a 13-year old's face. The boy's lips stretched, showing his fangs, and he glided forward with boneless grace to meet Alvarson.   
  
The chain whistled, cutting the air and making Janos duck. Marc grinned and the chain sung again painting spirals around him as he and Alvarson circled each other. Marc feinted to the right, stepping lightly and surely, carrying his weight on the balls of his feet. The bigger man swayed to counter and had to spring back rapidly as Marc whipped the chain at his face with a reversed slash. Suddenly Janos snarled and lunged forward, cursing again as he took a hit to the torso, and grabbed the chain with his hand. Jerking it roughly toward himself he casually backhanded Marc, sending him sprawling across the floor. "Punk." He threw the chain on the floor and sniffed, raising his eyes at O'Donnell. "Your turn, Mick."   
  
"You bet."   
  
Alvarson blinked stupidly at the shape suddenly looming in front of him. "Wha.." The query cut off abruptly and brutally as the edge of Rory's right palm hit his jugular, while his left hammered the Swede's knife arm at the wrist against Rory's knee. O'Donnell swore as pain lanced through his hand and instead of going down Janos simply stumbled back, dropping the blade. The blow went bad, partly caught by the Swede's jawbone. Sputtering his rage, Alvarson surged forward, grasping Rory in a bear hug and raising him off the floor in a crushing embrace. His ribs cracking Rory felt his lips pull up, in a wolfish snarl as grinned savagely, jamming his thumbs under Alvarson's armpits.   
  
This time the roar almost deafened him, as the death grip on his ribcage slackened. Rory's lips stretched into a thin vicious line and Janos's eyes widened in a horrified realization, "No! Not aga... Argh!"   
  
O'Donnell feet found the floor again as Alvarson stumbled back, clutching his hands over the bloody ruin of his nose. Not wasting a moment the bouncer followed the head butt with a punch, sending Janos into a staggering retreat and keeping him reeling with a flurry of blows.   
  
"Fucker." Jab.   
  
"Gonna pull a feather on me in my own house?" Jab.   
  
"Gonna push the kids around?" Cross.   
  
" C'mon!" Uppercut. "Get up, you sonavabith!" Kick. "Up!"   
  
Rory strengthened, wiping his mouth in a slow angry gesture, his eyes never leaving the Alvarson's body. The Swede moaned and his right hand moved weakly as he struggled to pull himself toward the knife laying a few feet away on the floor. O'Donnell scowled and leaned down, grasping Janos by the hair and hauling him up. "Dumbass."   
  
"Hey, let 'im be, O'Donnell!"   
  
"Shut up!"   
  
"Snap his neck, Rory!"   
  
"Better let him go, Irish."   
  
Alvarson's eyes rolled frantically and his fingers scrabbled ineffectually along Rory's wrist. He appeared to be tiring quickly -- until caught the look in the bouncer's eyes and suddenly redoubled his efforts.   
  
"Say good night, Jonny-me-boyo."   
  
The blow behind Janos's ear was sharp and tightly controlled and Rory nodded in satisfaction, examining the suddenly limp body with a critical eye. Out for good. On the other hand..."Ah whatta hell."   
  
"O'Donnell!"   
  
The warning was just in time but even as Rory recognized the voice and   
registered the tone, he shrugged mentally and followed through anyway,   
something inside of him snarling in feral satisfaction as he rammed   
Alvarson's head into the table's surface in an enormously gratifying,   
powerful slam.   
  
"O'Donnell!" This time the tone held not only a warning but also a promise of inescapable and suitably horrifying retribution to follow shortly.   
  
"Boss."   
  
A short, middle aged, bottle blonde glared up the Irish bouncer towering above her, her arms crossed belligerently. Rory swallowed and winced as the hands slick with blood and sweat lost grip on Alvarson's hair and the Swede's face smacked back into the table.   
  
Seraph, the owner, proprietor and almighty and merciless deity of the   
Princess Bar slowly transferred her eyes at the unconscious body, then back at O'Donnell, before slowly and deliberately letting them take in the carnage. The blue eyes came back to stare at O'Donnell, with flat and unfriendly expression.   
  
"Five minutes."   
  
"Yes, boss!"   
  
The cleanup took less than Rory feared, especially since the bar emptied out somewhat as midday neared. Malik and Marc pitched in, before Seraph came back to glare the younger part of the duo into her office to look at his quickly developing bruise.   
  
"Ugh. Thish ish dishgushting." Malik shuddered and deftly demolished the remnant of the food on his plate. "More?"   
  
"Here. Try to swallow it instead of inhaling this time."   
  
"I'd have to taste it then."   
  
"Smartalec."   
  
Rory sat silently for a while, watching Malik eat, absently bandaging his hand. "Listen, kid..."   
  
"Hmph?" Malik raised his head, swallowing, as Rory fell silent again. " I am _eating_. What?"   
  
O'Donnell squinted and tightened the knot, looking at his bandaged hand   
critically. Visibly stalling. Malik's eyes narrowed and he put the spoon down carefully. "Spit it out."   
  
"It's about your partner."   
  
"What about him?" Malik's tone unmistakably took on a hostile defensive   
tinge as he moved his plate away.   
  
Rory frowned darkly but held on to his temper. "Same old. Listen to me, kid. You... Just, trust me, all right! He's dangerous. Wild. I know the signs."   
  
"He just saved you life, man! Jesus!"   
  
"Yeah. And he's gonna get you killed."   
  
Hey Mal..." Marc stopped, regarding the pair locked in a glaring contest warily. "Am I interrupting something?"   
  
Malik was the first to break eye contact, getting up and nodding curtly to Rory, "Nah. We're done here. Let's jet."   
  
***   
Now:   
  
New York was sweltering. There was no other way to describe it. It seemed absurd that the temperature could rise so radically after weeks of unrepentant torrential downpours that plaguing the city recently. And yet. New York was sweltering.   
  
It was the dry, mercilessly bright, inescapable heat of concrete and metal. Waves of it assailed the city, pounding like a muted chorus of war drums, making the air into a shimmering, wavering curtain, painting the city with uneven stripes of buildings' shadows. The sun hung motionlessly overhead in a clear sky over the emptying streets. The occasional helicopter, like a moth drawn to its fiery doom, would cross the blue expanse infrequently, swallowed momentarily by the golden glare before disappearing out of view.   
  
New York was sweltering.   
  
Far from the majestic towers of Manhattan's skyscrapers and the wide   
throughways of Broadway, deep in the bowels of the district known not   
entirely inappropriately as Hell's Kitchen the heat was almost unbearable. The tall wide shouldered man with long blond hair falling limply on his shoulders swiped a cheap paper towel across his face and growled. "I hate this city."   
  
"What are you talkin' about, man? This town is great."   
  
Victor Creed, the mutant, the assassin, the murderer, the mercenary, the madman, the Sabretooth, turned slowly around from the grimy window of a seedy and, until recently, abandoned tenement building, his eerie, catlike eyes settling with a faint air of contempt on the second man in the room. Muscled like a gymnast, the younger man was also blond, but there the similarity between the two ended. His eyes were hidden behind the expensive pair of Raybands but it mattered little to Creed, whose enhanced senses picked up with ease the increased heart rate and the smell of... fear. "I wasn't talking to you, Fletcher. So stay the fuck outta my face. Got it?"   
  
"Uhh... yeah. Sure."   
  
The dark amber eyes remained focused on Rick Fletcher's face, widening   
slightly as Creed's nostrils flared, giving Sabretooth an even more   
predatory look.   
  
"Hey."   
  
Rick's relief was almost palpable as the familiar voice sounded, breaking the tension. Lucy Banks' eyes darted from one face to the other, only her head visible in the gaping maw of the trapdoor, the dark ebony of her skin making her almost invisible in the shadows. She dragged long slender fingers through short kinky hair, keeping her eyes on Creed. "Boss wants us downstairs."   
  
Rick waved his hand in affirmation, knowing even as he did that the motion was harried, nervous... afraid. "We'll be right there."   
  
By the window Creed snorted.   
  
Lucy nodded and giving the pair one last long look disappeared below. Once out of view she let out a small wavering sigh and leaned her forehead against the smooth surface of the mirror, closing her eyes for a moment. Another shuddering gasp escaped her and she concentrated drawing in a deliberate, measured breath before slowly letting it out. Calming herself. Getting a hold on her center. Her. Lucy Banks. The Ark. Breathe in. And out. Find yourself.   
  
In.   
She was scared. Terrified.   
  
Out.   
She mustn't show it. Even though she was sure that Creed knew. Creed ... That one scared her the most. Even more than the Boss.   
  
In.   
She was a part of something finally. Something big. Something important. It sounded trite and tired. But it was true. She was part of the Brotherhood now. Their history became hers.   
  
Out.   
They were legendary. Magneto himself picked them once to follow him and make the world safe for the mutants. The Magneto.   
  
In.   
Lucy. Lucy Banks. The Ark.   
  
Out.   
She would prove that she belonged. Whatever it might take.   
  
Creed was the last to enter the 'War Room', glaring everyone out of his way. His hand shot out with superhuman quickness and grabbing a stool he settled down in a murky corner, the yellow eyes alert and ready. Forcibly Lucy made herself to look at someone else, anywhere else. Almost unconsciously her eyes ran around the room. The 'War Room' was manifestly unsuited for the grandiose name it somehow acquired. Its single virtue was the fact that the room was spacious and cool, a refuge from the heat. The best piece of furniture was green pool table in the middle of the basement, covered with maps magazines and paper - most of it filled with the Boss's small, curving handwriting. The Boss practically lived down here, Lucy thought not for the first time, her eyes drawn for a fleeting moment to the old small fridge in   
the corner. Hell, the Boss even slept down here. If she ever slept.   
  
Lucy remembered vividly coming down for something one night and seeing the Boss just laying there, hands locked behind her head, just looking. Utterly still, just looking at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Weird. Lucy sighed. That word seemed to apply to many of the issues relating to her new surroundings.   
  
Lips quirking she stifled an irritated sigh as Rick's voice rang out again with the inevitable annoying comment. Fletcher was the only other Newbie beside herself in the room. Well, not entirely, she conceded, and her eyes darted briefly toward the slender young brunette sitting demurely at the corner of the table. Martinique Jason caught her glance, brief as it was, and nodded gracefully. Blushing Lucy blinked self-consciously and hurriedly turned away. Martinique always made her feel so inadequate.  
  
  
She was the daughter of the original Mastermind and from everything Lucy heard and saw she more than lived up to the nomme de guerre she adopted in her father's memory. When they were first introduced, Lucy assumed her to be French -- the name, the seemingly innate grace and the fact that Martinique was then a brunette feeding into some old preconception. The clipped, unmistakably British accent dispelled the notion as soon as Martinique spoke. So, theoretically, Martinique was just as green, just as new.   
  
Still... Lucy could not bring herself to count herself or Rick on the same level as Mastermind.   
  
Rick Fletcher. The bastard son of Martin Fletcher, the original Super Sabre. The son inherited the father's super speed, just as Martinique inherited her father's telepathy. And he also felt it appropriate to adopt the name as well. Unfortunately, Lucy sighed, the super speed appeared to affect every part of Rick except for his brain. He was catty, annoying and vain. Cute too but... Annoying. Mostly annoying. And not terribly bright, Lucy privately thought, as he continued to bait the gigantic man sitting next to him. Only an idiot would continue trying Fred Dukes' patience. Certainly Lucy wasn't   
going to.   
  
She had heard of the Blob of course. Even saw him on TV a couple of times. He was even larger in person if that was possible. His size, actually, was the butt of most of Fletcher's jokes and, while so far Dukes had contented himself with verbal sparring, Lucy dreaded the inevitable moment when he'd take a more direct approach.   
  
Toad, seeming all the smaller in comparison to his old compatriot, sat   
perched on a railing, his tongue flickering and the quick eyes in constant motion. Mortimer Toynbee, the one-time leader of Brotherhood of Mutants. Nothing in his manner suggested that he was bitter about his change in status. But then he, Dukes, the Boss and Sabretooth knew each other from old. The same for Dominic Petros, the Avalanche and Kevin Tremain, the Post, who at this very moment were standing watch somewhere outside. Lucy frowned, once again puzzled why the two more experienced mutants were being left out of this conference while Fletcher and herself were not.   
  
She sighed and quietly looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. The   
important thing was to remember and breathe. And it was easier down here at least. Lucy shivered slightly, the chilly air of the basement -- while a relief from the pressing heat -- was somewhat of a bother when she was wearing only a light summer dress.   
  
"Hey, Banks." She looked up startled, just in time to catch some strange fluttering, black object flying at her.   
  
Mortimer Toynbee shook his head at her and snickered, "Weirdo. It's a   
freakin' oven outside and you're shaking like a leaf."   
  
Lucy grinned quick thanks and straggled into the leather jacket, sighing with quiet if somewhat embarrassed contentment. Toad shook his head again, grinning. Suddenly his smile fled and he went very still, reminding Lucy of the black and white stills of the Notre Dame gargoyles. Just as suddenly his head inclined in a short nod, breaking the illusion.   
  
Lucy half-turned and was met squarely by a level, faintly amused stare of those uncanny crimson almond shaped eyes. Martinique coughed delicately and Lucy started, realizing that the entire room was watching the staring contest. She flushed again and dropped her eyes, "Sorry, boss."   
  
Mystique laughed at that, the low warm throaty chuckle washing over the   
room. Getting up from the cot along the wall in one swift move, she   
stretched catlike. "Everyone is here then. Good." Raven Darkholme, the   
current leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants, was barefoot and the sound of her steps across the cold stone floor of the basement was too low enough even for the enhanced senses of the mutants around her. She was dressed simply in a black skirt and a beige blouse, her exotically blue skin and the hair color of blood making the clothes seem plain. She glided softly by Lucy, her eyes flickering from her to Toad, whose posture seemed to become even more rigid. Mystique's teeth showed again in a soundless laugh and she ran her hand lightly across Lucy's back before turning and regarding Fletcher, her smile still in place and yet completely different. Sabre shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under the stare, and Lucy held her breath, not sure what she was afraid of. The silence stretched and the look in Rick's eyes began to take on a definitely panicky aspect. Beside him the Blob sat heavily, watching in silence, nodding slightly at Mystique when her eyes finally, wordlessly left Sabre. Darkholme didn't nod back and, Lucy noted, she never even looked at Creed as she stopped at the edge of the table.   
  
"Very well. There has been a slight change. Kelly's coming here a week   
earlier." Raven smiled again and Lucy swallowed, struck by the resemblance between it and the predatory expression on Creed's face just minutes ago.   
  
***   
  
"Would you mind giving Becky a hand with her suitcase, Nathan?"   
  
"Of course. I told her, I'd get it." Cable glared at the short brunette as he snatched the luggage out of her hands, seemingly just in time before she lost her balance and fell, huge suitcase and all. Rebecca Morgan grinned, "I do so love a gentleman. Careful with that! And don't you growl at me, mister!"   
  
Eddie sniggered as he appeared in the doorway and scanned the bedlam that was Robert Kelly's hotel room with an experienced eye. "Are we about ready?" He easily shrugged off the spiteful looks from the people in the room grinning at Kelly's chastising headshake. "It's good for them, Senator. Keeps their egos in check."   
  
"Edward. A word of advice. Don't tease the potential members of the future Cabinet."   
  
Eddie froze suddenly; seemingly petrified by this take on the situation, and from the adjoining room Melissa snickered, "Ouch. Nowhere to go. All exits cut off. Unless of course Mr. Carson would care to express some doubts in regards to our indubitable victory in the election?"   
  
General laugh swept the room, still chasing Nathan as he left the room.   
Nobody noticed that his own grin had grown a little glassy and strained. Except perhaps for Kelly. Cable scowled, storming down the corridor, four suitcases in his hands. They still didn't know. The absurdity of the situation had ceased to amuse him a while ago. Apparently Bright Lady felt that his life simply wasn't complicated enough. He growled and kicked the door of the elevator, denting it slightly and scaring a socialite couple, who gave him a strange look and backed away into their room, apparently deciding to take the next car. He would have laughed if it wasn't so goddamn   
typical. Catching his reflection in a metallic paneling of the elevator's doors Cable bared his teeth at himself, the memories of that day just a few weeks ago coming unbidden and disjointed.   
  
Kellly's face, going impossibly even calmer and more unreadable than before as he carefully settled his glass on the table before him. Taking off his glasses and folding them, his eyes never leaving Roushe's face. "Nathan?"   
  
"He's clean, Senator."   
  
Roushe seemed to relax at that, an oily smile coming back to part the wet lips. "Believe me, Senator. This is not an attempt to entrap you."   
  
Cable's gut twisted in cold hate for the man and all of his kind, but he stayed impassive. Watching.   
  
His patience paid off. And how. Nate's reflection nodded in agreement. It should be a no small ego boost. Being one of the less than twenty people on Earth to be in the possession of information that would decide the course of the future.   
  
Bright Lady, he could have done without it!   
  
Roushe's sweating; still smiling face swam before his mind's eye. Talking. Incessantly talking as if anything else needed to be been said. A chance. A fluke of fate. What a mess.   
  
Nobody could have predicted the unexpected appeal of the 'folksy' Joseph Allen Davis. Nobody could have guessed that he would sweep out of nowhere to grab the Republican nomination. Nobody could have foreseen the unmistakably one-sided campaign as Kelly, whom many of the pundits considered a stronger candidate, continued to trail, and badly.   
  
Nobody could have known that the 14-year old Allie Davis would manifest less than four months before the Election Day.   
  
Her power was as innocent as one could wish. And it didn't matter a jot. And so one little girl's ability to make flowers grow would decide the fate of the single most powerful country on Earth. Life was funny sometimes.   
  
Funny. Yeah.   
  
Roushe wasn't telling them everything, of course. Big surprise. And all of the reasons he gave made sense. Almost entirely convincing. Any attempt by Davis to drop his quest for presidency at this juncture would indubitably result in an even more merciless scrutiny by the press. Or he could go on and win. In either case, the truth was bound to come out. Piously Roushe professed his concern for the incalculable damage such scandal would deal the Republican Party.   
  
Perhaps he was even telling the truth. Paradoxically it was much easier to throw the election to the opposing party, if one wanted to avoid unwelcome attention.   
  
And attention was most definitely unwelcome. Though perhaps Cable's reasons differed from those of Roushe.   
  
Nate winced again, just he'd winced that day imagining the reaction of the Joe Average if the news ever broke. "Mutant Conspiracy!"   
  
Life was infinitely tragic sometimes.   
  
The elevator car slowed smoothly to a stop and the sound of a bell preceded the opening of the doors. It took Nathan several minutes to realize that the group of people waiting for the elevator were exchanging glances and whispers, looking at him and most probably wondering why he was just standing there, looking straight ahead. Lost for an adequate explanation he settled for a dark glower instead, shouldering his way through, two bags in each hand.   
  
It wasn't his problem dammit! It wasn't. Let Kelly figure it out. It was his own damn life. His own damn choice. If he wanted the presidency badly enough... So be it.   
  
Not his problem.   
  
Keeping Kelly alive to make the decision was. Nothing else.   
  
Not his problem.   
  
"So are we actually leaving for the airport anytime today?" Mike grinned amiably, without breaking his hawk-like scanning of the street. From behind the wheel Jack rumbled in deep, low laughter, as Cable dumped the bags inside. "Yeah. New York waits for no man."   
  
***   
  
"Madame Archon?" James Woolworth knocked on the opened door again, coughing with meaningful deference. He sighed resignedly, as, just as he expected, no answer came and he settled just outside the room, watching his Archon.   
  
Amelia Voght had been in a strange mood all day. Quiet. Pensive. Distracted. Magistry of Interior was currently in the process of holding its collective breath. James pretended not to notice the pitying glances as he went up to personally deliver the missive to the Archon. He knew the Archon better than any of them. Maybe even better than many of her original compatriots among the Acolytes. And so while the rank and file of the Magistry had long since decided that it was impossible to predict the mercurial Voght and it was just simpler to always assume the worst, James long since learned to   
recognize the signs that prefaced the infamous explosions of temper.   
Somebody had to be there to look out for Rusty in a pinch, after all.   
  
He sighed, the green eyes narrowing in thought on the back of the red headed woman staring out of the tall window overlooking Hammer Bay. Looks like this was one of those days. He'd just come back later.   
  
"James. Where are you going?"   
  
"Uh..."   
  
"Is that piece of paper you're clutching for me or did you come up here to admire the view?"   
  
"Yes, ma'am. I mean, it is, ma'am. Here."   
  
"Summarize it for me."   
  
"Uhm..." Woolworth glanced uncertainly at the deciphered text of the message that came barely half an hour ago. "It's from the first lance. They say that they're certain that Mystique is New York. That they will find her shortly."   
  
Voght nodded absently. "Good. Good." She shook her head suddenly, red hair flying and moved quickly to the table, writing something with quick sure strokes and then thrusting the piece of paper at James. "Send this. Now."   
  
"Yes, Madame Archon."   
  
***   
  
"I don't get it."   
  
Deb's palm hit her forehead with a loud crack. "Oy vey."   
  
Vazhin scowled. "Enough. And run it by me again."   
  
"Again?!"   
  
"Again."   
  
Deb let out an explosive sigh and cast an appealing glance at Rasputin who was standing in the doorframe, cigarette smoke swimming about his face. The tall dark-haired man looked back impassively and Deb sighed again. "Okey-dokey."   
  
It's not that she blamed Vazhin. She hadn't react exactly with tact and   
understanding when she got the news. But still. Her fingers grabbed the edge of the blanket and she shifted, pulling herself up into a half-seating position. From his seat on the chair next to the bed, Vazhin scowled again. "So what you're trying to tell me is that..." The head of Department 13 smiled sourly and started ticking off the points methodically on his fingers. "You got shot."   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"You shot back."   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"You ran."   
  
"Yeah."   
  
Vazhin closed his eyes for a second before continuing in a deceptively mild tone. "Then you were found by Grigori Rasputin who healed you, fed you and told you to call me."   
  
"No."   
  
"No?"   
  
"Nope. I called you. He just said he didn't have any objection to me telling you the truth."   
  
"That was nice of him."   
  
Deb grinned, "I thought so too."   
  
Alexei rubbed tiredly the patch covering the ruin of his right eye. At   
length he turned around to regard the man standing by the door levelly. "All right. What?"   
  
"Huh?"   
  
"Quiet, Levin."   
  
"Wait! You can't just go ' all right' like that! Damn! This is Rasputin, man! The Rasputin! I mean the The Rasputin! And check this out!"   
  
Vazhin's eyebrow quirked as Deb scrambled, struggling with the blanket and her shirt. "Deborah... Why are you stripping?"   
  
"In your dreams. Look!"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Yes! See? A distinct lack of gaping wound? See! He did that! So hah! You can't just go all 'cool, moving on now!' I don't care how long you were with.." Deb contorted her face and changed her voice into a caricature of Vazhin "The Department."   
  
Slapping the blanket she stared at him resolutely, "There is no way you can top this, I don't care how many ghosts haunted your old commander's office! C'mon! Ras-pu-tin! Raspu-TIN. RAS-putin! "   
  
Vazhin steepled his fingers, looking at Deb with stoic patience. As usual the tactic proved successful and Deb subsided, muttering darkly.   
  
"Done?'   
  
Glowering at him, Deb sniffed and resolutely clamped her lips shut, staring straight ahead.   
  
"Good. Mr. Rasputin?" Alexei raised his eyebrow, tilting his head. "To what do I owe this honor?"   
  
The man let out a stream of tobacco smoke, watching it dissipate for a   
second before replying with mild disinterest. "Armageddon."   
  
***   
  
"So what's the problem? I mean, everything practically is in place. And I didn't like the bomb plan anyway. We'll just go in, Marti here will mess with their brains, we kick their ass, off the moron and we're outta there." Rick shrugged and locked his hands behind his head reclining on his chair.   
"Simple."   
  
Lucy was almost sure that she caught a shadow of distaste run across   
Martinique's features when she heard Rick shorten her name, but the   
expression was so fleeting she wouldn't swear to it. And in any case she was more concerned with the somewhat appalled silence that greeted Fletcher's statement. She jumped as Creed, eerily motionless throughout most of the discussion, suddenly got up in one fluid motion. He gave Fletcher one long disgusted look, dropped his cigar and stomping it stalked out of the room   
without a word.   
  
"What? What?!" Sabre flushed and looked around challengingly. " We could do this!"   
  
"Or, y'know... " Toad shrugged depreciatingly from his perch, "We could come up with a plan that we actually survive. Howsabout that?"   
  
"Yeah. What the fuck kind of crap is that. What the hell are we? X-Men?"   
  
Rick's flush deepened and he glared at Dukes, "Come up with better then, lardguts!" Before anyone could reply the speedster disappeared, leaving the room at blurring velocity.   
  
Fred looked heavily at the trapdoor that slammed shut after the Super Sabre before turning to Mystique. "Just so we're all good and clear... That little fuck is the decoy, right? Right, boss?"   
  
Toad sniggered softly and Raven smiled, unrolling the blueprints that they had all memorized over the last weeks, on the table, "Here's how we're gonna do it...."   
  
"What about Cr.. Uh, I mean Sabretooth?"   
  
Mystique quirked an eyebrow, pausing to regard Lucy for a second. "He knows already. He, Avalanche and the Post are on the way there." She turned to Martinique, "Now... Fletcher wasn't completely talking out of his ass, actually..."   
  
***   
  
"Well?"   
  
"No dice. We spotted Creed, but he lost us."   
  
"Shit." Katu grunted and stroked his beard, thinking. "This ain't good."   
  
The pale, thin youth across from his shrugged and saluted. "Sorry, sir."   
  
"Not your fault. Creed is good. I just didn't count on him and Raven hooking up again. They hate each others' guts..." Once again the old Acolyte ran his synthetic right hand through his graying beard thinking, "You can go, Ascet."   
  
"Sir."   
  
Katu watched as the kid saluted again and turned about smartly, before   
leaving and carefully closing the door behind him. 'There's a lance leader in the making or I'll shave my beard. Dammit.' He scowled, tugging on his braid as his thoughts returned to the problem at hand. The Intel was good but they'd missed Sabretooth's involvement. Made one wonder what else got by them. He frowned, looking at the sheet of paper with a list of familiar names before him. He was reasonably sure that with fifteen men he could take care of Darkholme and her little nostalgia circus of has beens. He snorted.   
  
Neither Avalanche nor Post were exactly spring chickens anymore. Creed   
though. Raven herself... God knows what other surprises were there. And he in the middle of it with half of his lance Neophytes. He smiled despite himself. Little horrors. His hand clenched almost unconsciously and he sighed, looking at the stump of his left arm. He could still feel it sometimes, feel the little aches, feel his fingers. It was strange. He shrugged fatalistically. At least he wasn't dead. He'd wanted to be for a long time. Especially when it finally became clear that without his arms, the control over his mutancy became much too unstable. The fact that the bionics seemed to actually increase them at first, made the eventual let down all the more painful.   
But.   
  
Voght came through for him. And so did the Chief.   
  
Gave him Neophytes.   
  
He chuckled. He never thought he'd grow attached to a bunch of kids, feral and wild, gathered all over the world. Some came out of the Genoshan civil war. Already lethal, experienced, jaded fighters at 15. Others came from everywhere else. None lacked in experience of being a mutant. Survivors all. New wave. Next Acolytes.   
  
The future.   
  
He sighed again. This bunch was good. Already had a few successes in the field. This new BoM would be their graduation exam. After today, they'd be the first Neophytes to go out on their own. Without being meshed with more experienced fighters.   
  
Well. Those of them who'd survive.   
  
"Sir! We got a sighting!"   
  
Showtime.   
  
***   
  
"I don't like it."   
  
"You worry too much, Nathan. Really. I've always preferred to visit the   
venues in which I am to speak. Gives me a feel for the audience and the   
room."   
  
"That's the problem." Mike muttered glumly from the backseat. Kelly half turned, raising an eyebrow. "Pardon?"   
  
Thomson glared at Eddie and ignoring the latter resigned sigh plowed on. "Nathan is right, Senator. This is not a good idea. It never was. Like you said - you've always done it. It's a pattern."   
  
"Relax, gentlemen. We have three cars worth of escorts from every law   
enforcement agency known to man. Unless they come after us with tanks, we are safe. " Kelly chuckled again, "You're with me on this, Eddie, right?"   
  
Cable glanced at the rearview mirror, glowering, and caught the twin of the look hitting Eddie from Mike. The bleached bodyguard glared back. "Kills me to say it, Senator, but these two mother hens are right."   
  
Kelly's head shook in silent laughter, short salt and pepper hair flying slightly out of place, "Paranoid bunch, aren't you? Trust me, there will be no tanks coming after us tonight. I give you my word."   
  
***   
  
The doors of the First National Bank screamed and flew off the hinges, the glass shattering and covering the tiled floor like a jeweled shower. The patrons screamed and the security guards rushed the intruder, both actions equally and dismally futile.   
  
Fred J. Dukes smiled, the crewcut of brown hair spiking above the low   
forehead. "Let's party."   
  
***   
  
"Ah well. " Eddie shrugged philosophically and unfolded a worn map,   
squinting, "This auditorium is squarely between two precincts headquarters. If something happens, they'll be there before you can say 'police brutality.' Right?"   
  
Mike scowled but nodded reluctantly.   
  
Eddie grinned, unable to resist, "Unless, you know?A war breaks out in the middle of New York."   
  
***   
The sirens of the First National were echoed by the ear splitting alarms in a building many blocks away. There were screams here too, but less and most of them full of anger rather than fear. Many things could and were said about Friends of Humanity, but lack of suspicion and preparation for the mutant attacks on their head office were not among their many faults. For all the good it did them when the null fields suddenly went down along with most of the defensive perimeter and Rick Fletcher exploded inside their building. Literally.   
  
His whoop didn't have the time to die down as the speedster rocketed through the yard and the foyer, liberally spraying everything around him with a modified assault rifle, followed by generous distribution of the hand grenades.   
  
***   
  
Robert Kelly ran up the short stairs and looked around the auditorium, from the platform. "Not bad."   
  
"It's a flonqing nightmare."   
  
"What'd you say, Nate?" Cable jerked his head toward the pacing Senator, before repeating, "I said this place is a frigging nightmare, protection wise."   
  
Eddie nodded and shrugged philosophically. "He's the boss. Ours is not to question why..."   
  
"Right." Cable nodded absently, squinting as he continued to assess the   
room. "Well. At least we got all these uniforms and the Bureau guys on   
hand."   
  
Eddie nodded again and unobtrusively corrected the holster, bulging his suit jacket. "Yeah. It should be enough."   
  
"You think so, kid?"   
  
Eddie turned around, surprised at the unexpected comment and blinked at the graying policeman that apparently followed the conversation. "Yeah. I think so. Why?"   
  
The cop smiled and Cable's instincts screamed at him. But then it was much too late as the policeman's plain features melted and changed and it was Mystique with her gun barrel pointing squarely at his head. "Pipe."   
  
***   
  
"Shit."   
  
"I think we're too late."   
  
"Really?" Pike 's sarcasm was almost palpable as he glared at the Ascet, his energy staff glowing dark green. "What gave you that idea? Was it the screams or the gunfire?"   
  
"Stow it!" Pike looked rebellious for a moment but subsided under Katu's glare. Satisfied, the older man nodded curtly and looked around, catching the eyes of his command. "All right, then. For what we're about to receive..."   
  
"Let us be grateful."   
  
Katu nodded as fifteen fists slammed against as many chests in unison.   
"Let's roll."   
  
***  
  
Cable came to in the midst of a surrealistic nightmare. The auditorium was dark -- the electricity apparently had gone out in the first minutes of the fight -- illuminated only by the muzzle flashes, beams and tracer rounds.   
  
Nathan felt a sharp pain and touched the side of his head. Dully surprised as the hand came away red with blood. Apparently he'd raised his arm just in time, Mystique's shot ricocheting off the T-O mesh and dealing only a   
glancing blow instead of a killing one. He shook off the lightheaded   
feeling, getting up to his feet and groping for his gun.   
  
"Senator!"   
  
Cable's yell died unheard in the cacophony of the battle, and he snarled, casually batting away a psionic assault that suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere crashed into his defenses. He wheeled, trying to ascertain where the   
attack came from, and saw Kelly instead. The Senator, flanked by Michael and Eddie, was being herded carefully toward the back of the hall. Forgetting the hostile psi Nate sprang forward, only now noticing that his image inducer was broken, probably crushed in the fall. Shrugging it off he continued running, the scenes from the fight flickering around him like a broken film. He leapt over a uniformed body, than a black suited one, and ducked as another policeman fired at him. It soon seemed clear that there   
were three distinct groups in the auditorium, none working together. The remnants of the police and the FBI, who judging by the bodies on the floor were taking truly appalling causalities, appeared to be shooting at anything exhibiting deviation from a baseline human.   
  
The second group was led by Mystique and Cable recognized many familiar   
faces. Toad was leaping and twisting and holding his own against two partial shape shifters, the claws and fangs flashing as the smaller mutants danced out of the way time after time. To the side Post was hard pressed by a duo, unfamiliar to Cable, one wielding some sort of energy construct in a form of   
a Bo staff, the other pale and gaunt firing energy blasts from his hands. Clearly part of the third group. Nate swore as a stray shot missed his head by mere inches and twisted, his gun at the ready as he heard his curse echoed. Before he could shoot or ask questions, the tall blond winked out of sight, stepping out of the shadows a second later behind one of the policemen and knocking him out with a savage blow. " Are you out of your damn mind! We're   
trying to help you, here! Flatscans! I swear..."   
  
Suddenly a movement in the corner of his eye caught Nathan's attention and another vile oath bubbled out as he recognized Mystique herself gliding smoothly through the hall toward Kelly. He watched as she dispatched one of the unknown mutants with a casual headshot before continuing on her way with the grim implacability of death. He gritted his teeth and leapt forward, noting another of the unknown mutants scream in pain suddenly and cast a fireball in the empty air in front of her, then fall clutching her head.   
Victim of the unknown psi.   
  
The last desperate surge gave him just enough momentum to ram Kelly down just as Mystique fired. Almost in unison Thompson and Eddie returned fire, and Darkholme casually reached out, grabbing an FBI agent and jerking him   
into the line of fire, shielding herself. Moment later she ducked and   
ghosted away, disappearing from view, the unfortunate agent pitching over slowly, his formerly white shirt blooming with crimson.   
  
"Nate?!" Eddie's voice sounded incredulous. But he seemed to recover   
quickly, nodding and taking his gun off Cable, Thompson doing the same just a fraction faster. "We gotta get out of here."   
  
"Back exit! Get him up and go. Mike - point. "   
  
"On it."   
  
Kelly seemed dazed as Nathan hauled him up in one quick brutal movement, "Nathan? What?Who are you? What is... what is this?" His eyes seemed caught by the carnage of the battle being fought feet away. As the air was split by the energy beams and animalistic growls, the occasional human -- in uniform or not -- seemed tragically out of place in the midst of the combat of enhanced reflexes and superhuman strength. Toad emerged momentarily from   
the general melee flipping over one of the policemen and breaking his neck with a casual snap kick.   
  
"Future, Senator. This is my future."   
  
"Better believe it, tin man."   
  
"Nate, look out!"   
  
He recognized the voice and lashed out with the full force of his mind   
before he even finished turning around to meet Sabretooth in hand to hand. Creed's head snapped back momentarily, but to Cable's shock he shook it off with almost contemptuous ease, baring his fangs in feral triumph and lunging for Nate's throat.   
  
Mike swore as he vainly tried to distinguish between the two grappling men. "Fuck. No clear shot!"   
  
"Forget it!" Eddie's voice cut through the din, clear and commanding, "We don't have time. Get the Senator ou... fuck!" Eddie's Beretta barked time and again, but the blue skinned woman seemed to dance out of harm's way. Leaping forward her heel struck the younger bodyguard' temple and she landed catlike, shoving the unconscious body out of her way and grabbing Eddie's gun almost as an afterthought.   
  
'Damn she's fast...'   
  
To his credit Michael Thompson managed to squeeze off two shots before the bullet slammed into his chest, bringing heavy darkness.   
  
The empty clip struck the floor with a muted clang and Robert Kelly   
swallowed and backed up as Mystique dropped the gun and drew a knife, its serrated edge gleaming in the glare of the burning furniture. The woman remained silent, stalking gracefully toward him.   
  
"No, Raven."   
  
The flames flared brighter suddenly and Mystique stopped, the crimson eyes widening in recognition as a shadows receded, letting a slouching man in   
brown trench coat step between her and Kelly. "Can't let you do this."   
  
"John..." Mystique's voice sounded almost pleading. "You don't understand! He has to die. You don't know.. You haven't seen... the future..."   
  
St. John Allerdyce shook his head, his eyes deep seated with dark circles under them, sadly amused. " Future. Future is now, Raven. Believe me. Destiny...Fate... They are just words." He coughed and the fire rose higher still around them, illuminating him. Once proud and haughty, Pyro, master of fire, a writer and a terrorist.   
  
Now just a tired man, his body ravaged by Legacy virus. His soul...   
  
"I won't let you kill him, Raven. Can't."   
  
***   
Then:   
  
Rory gripped the boy's shoulder in silent encouragement. He tried to find the words, but nothing came to mind except platitudes so he simply tightened his grip. The small, dry Chinese man across from him finished wiping his glasses and put them on. "This would be a risky investment for my employers. The child is young and yet he has already made enemies. His enemies would become our enemies, should he be given a place with the Brotherhood."   
  
O'Donnell snorted. "This 'child.' " He stressed the word with biting   
sarcasm. "Manifested less than a day ago. Over the body of his best friend. And you don't have to worry about his enemies. He took care of most of them."   
  
The Irish bouncer carefully schooled his face into an expressionless mask, desperately trying to block out the scene in the warehouse. The slender body of the black haired boy hanging limply from the chain, his face a mask of bruises. Red Claws did not let go lightly those caught stealing from them.   
  
Of course everybody makes mistakes in judgment.   
  
It took everything Rory had not to throw up right there as he saw what   
remained of the members of the gang. He had to walk through the hell of   
bodies reduced to bloody paste and body parts, macabre caricatures of   
themselves, the entire warehouse seemingly soaked in blood. The nightmare of a madman.   
  
O'Donnell found him, sitting right under the body, the blood dripping   
straight down, splattering on his face and running down his neck, painting a gruesome and morbid design on the canvas of his body.   
  
"Trust me. The Triads will not be disappointed if they take him in."   
  
The glasses glinted as the representative of the most powerful criminal   
organization in Asia turned to regard the thin boy in front of him. "What is your name, child?"   
  
The slanted, dark eyes remained locked on something visible only to the boy.   
A dull, dead expression that had been on his face ever since Rory carried him out of the warehouse.   
  
"Child?"   
  
Rory licked his lips. If the old man decided that the kid went nuts from the shock...   
  
"It's Marcus."   
  
O'Donnell started, his eyes widening.   
  
"Marcus Malik Tsung." 


End file.
